Shadow
by Laroid
Summary: The story of a Game Corner-prize Dratini who meets the perfect human trainer and, to his great distress, falls in love with her.
1. Level 15 - Goldenrod

**Link to PDF version in profile  
Cover art** **by** **kenket** (link also in profile)  
My stories will only appear either here, at deviantArt, or at Furaffinity (where the first reviewer found it)—please let me know if it appears elsewhere!

* * *

**Before Reading  
**Here's a test: if you enjoy reading the following paragraph of _Mrs Dalloway_ by Virginia Woolf, chances are this story won't be so unpleasant.

_[Peter Walsh reflecting on the character of Clarissa Dalloway]_  
Oddly enough, she was one of the most thoroughgoing sceptics he had ever met, and possibly (this was a theory he used to make up to account for her, so transparent in some ways, so inscrutable in others), possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners (Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can. Those ruffians, the Gods, shan't have it all their own way—her notion being that the Gods, who never lost a chance of hurting, thwarting and spoiling human lives were seriously put out if, all the same, you behaved like a lady. That phase came directly after Sylvia's death—that horrible affair. To see your own sister killed by a falling tree (all Justin Parry's fault—all his carelessness) before your very eyes, a girl too on the verge of life, the most gifted of them, Clarissa always said, was enough to turn one bitter. Later she wasn't so positive perhaps; she thought there were no Gods; no one was to blame; and so she evolved this atheist's religion of doing good for the sake of goodness.

If this style of writing attracts you, very well—what follows is my attempt at a similarly interior-monologue-heavy narrative, for about 225,000 words. If it's not your cup of tea, feel free to give it a try but I urge you not to keep on reading something you don't enjoy (even if the story doesn't pick up until Level 35, once all the scene-setting is done).

In either case, thanks for looking, and whether you enjoy it or not, please let me know in a review!

* * *

**Shadow**

* * *

**Part I**

* * *

**Level 15**

In fifty-five seconds, he lost his mind.

That was all it took in the end, he thought; that's what his reserves amounted to. His resistance training, as it were, was for nothing. Hours a day he watched the screen, studied every human that entered the Corner, anything to make up for the wilds—desperate to get a trainer, they said. It was the best he could do in the circumstances; it was all he could do to acclimate. If he could last a year in human company, he reasoned, without his sickness getting out, he may another, and so on. Then the evolution would save him: evolution changed everything, they said, one's whole character. So he'd be rid of it, cured forever; or it may get tenfold worse, this disorder, show him up at once as he lost all control. A Dratini they could forgive: a Dratini was dear and innocent; but a Dragonair was much more serious, and then, a Dragonite! No, he thought, evolution could only change what was present to work with, amplifying one's existing nature, rendering the difficult easy. So he had to cultivate his strength, his reserve, and if not destroy that part of him, subsume it entirely—that was his plan.

And then the bell rang, and she walked in, and the plan flew out behind her. There was always the chance of it, he thought, that he would simply go mad: today was the day. She held a Flaaffy in her arms, a Quilava following after, both looking about, both out of their balls but no question she was a trainer. She had the look of one who would carry Pokémon half the day and think it normal; who would carry a Dratini until the day he evolved.

She saw him through the glass—looked past him to the others, but she saw. Mr. Game rose from his seat. She was there for the Pokémon, yes; held her Flaaffy tightly; simply adored them, he knew, and wanted nothing but to lift one out and say, There! Don't you worry.

And how, how could a human girl, a species he had never seen before his capture, affect him so abominably? There was no reason to it. Nature threw its dice (so the show went) and laid out all ones and twos at best. So he knew the day it happened, when his confusion resolved into something concrete, there up on the screen: the Winter World Championship, the dance on ice.

—Introducing the lady Delacroix of Kalos!

That was the start of it, when the sickness first affected him. Then he knew exactly what he wanted out of the Corner. But then, the other Dratini said,

—Why's it got to be ice?

Instinctively he knew it had to be hidden, this rush of warmth, this heat that no sane Pokémon ought to feel for a human: telling would destroy him. Perhaps, he had thought, it would go away—perhaps it was actually common? But none of them quivered like that when a human came into the Corner, even such a girl as this who already kept Pokémon, looked warmly towards them, seemed somehow more alert than other humans, looking over things, dark-haired and dark-skinned … How could such a girl, just standing and talking, holding her Flaaffy in one hand and brushing back a strand of hair, obliterate his whole mind? What a fool to think he could think it all away! It was impossible; there was no losing a thing like this, not without evolution; it was only to hide it, that he was mad entirely. She had come in only a minute ago.

Mr. Game laughed, but not quite naturally, it seemed, as if he wasn't sure to laugh was the thing. And why not, the man said—but to what? He invited her to sit; the Flaaffy took her lap, the Quilava the seat beside her, and Mr. Game set the first round of Voltorb Flip. There was some sort of wager between them, it seemed, that he and the other Dratini in the farthest cage didn't hear. Of course Mr. Game never accepted a term that disfavoured him; he was nothing like his father, they said, turned the place directly to money. He rigged the table, they knew; he had a hidden trigger on his leg.

It wasn't all in his imagination, he thought: she beside him pressed to look as well, who judged a good human quite as accurately, or didn't they always show their character, making her their business? Trainers always came and looked, saw the cages, saw her at the end and then, of course, they had to play, their eyes showing it all, the stories they imagined: to have a pink Dratini! Mr. Game smiled and took their fee. Most lasted only two or three rounds; the lucky ones got an Ekans, a Sandshrew, an Abra, but never enough for even a regular Dratini, and anyway he priced her twice as much. But perhaps they could warn the girl about his trick—perhaps she would see? For he really did not misread her quality: she won three rounds already, a fraction of the usual time: everyone crowded at the glass. And she was a warm trainer, f0r certain, left them all out of their balls; she had wonderful hair; and she was clever, yes!—just the one he imagined.

And presently—and she always said he must stop moping, mustn't be sorry for himself, always so timid, always so melodramatic like the evening shows Mr. Game watched with his tea—presently as the girl stood up, won them all, however she liked, that would be it: she would take another and leave him behind for Mr. Game, no use at all: then he would expire. Absurd, he knew, but there it was: he would lie out and faint forever. For a hundred trainers came before, walked in with a sort of story he imagined, the champion to come and save them, and of course most proved lacking, folded quickly even before the cheat, quit the Corner with another Pokémon. But this girl! No such story came to mind. She only looked and seemed to say, Little things! Let me take you. And why especially her? (If he could understand it, he may not lose his mind.) He couldn't say precisely; all he felt was that she—how did the show put it?—tore the sham to ribbons: he was born sick and unable to get well, evolution bound to fix nothing. Some fibrous muscle—dragon heartstring was the technical term—plucked and began to resonate, to begin a long crescendo (as the people said on Kanto Classical Radio) that, however long it strung out, would only reach a dissonant climax and tear to pieces on the final chord. But there must be a reason, he thought, why her particularly. (He must understand it.) She was leagues ahead in cleverness than all the others, that was clear, in the fifth now without even slowing. She was darker than most Goldenroders, more than summer on a beach did, and wasn't it winter? Her belt was shaped like Kalos crescent bread with compartments on every twist; her hair had enormous volume, seemed split into feathers as if by wind, long days on the routes and nights camping in the open air: a serious trainer, the kind who felt Pokémon better company than humans—just the right sort! She wouldn't mind him curling on her lap; she would hold him against her shirt and stroke his neck. And she was deliberate—that was it—looking through her glasses (she put them on after the third round) over her Flaaffy's head, seeing many combinations at once (it wasted her to play a game like Flip)—and with a few touches, selecting those and only those necessary to win the round. So the round was won. The others pressed forward, pushed against him, and for a moment he could not see her clearly, so that looking up she missed him; and there, again, he saw it: standing, picking out another, leaving him behind.

One of the other Dratini turned to her and said, "[She's not bad at all! What do you think?]"

She smiled and said, "[Give her a few more rounds.]"

He wanted to protest; felt a wild urge to snap and say she was a rot—she his only friend! (Already he was quite mad.) Of course she would get the pick, if it came to that; for why not take the best, not only in appearance but ability as well? A pink Dratini was wonderfully rare (how many yen did Mr. Game profit by her in the last year?); no one more deserved a warm trainer, one who wouldn't treat her as a prize, she who was after all the kindest of all the Dratini to him, talked to him when he was alone watching the screen, started up the conversations that lasted for days for lack of other distraction. She would make a fine battler, always so free of concern: she would become the core of some great team and she knew it. So naturally when she arrived, carried in on the same truck as him from some lake or other, something far from the cave he remembered (so long ago it seemed now, all the details missing)—naturally he and the other three deferred to her, the model Pokémon, all the qualities any trainer would desire and all he lacked in himself.

—You've got a good brain. It's just a shame you don't always use it. You'll find a trainer: you will.

So she said; it was a kindness to overlook his defects. Next to her, he was just a quivering thing; couldn't battle even in the wilds, only fell into a catatonic wrap; totally without strength; totally without proportion, spent all day watching the screen at the feeding dish until now, just short of a year later, he was an inch wider than he ought to be (though he could not recall ever being different) and still cave-pale for lack of exercise: the worst in a clutch of five. He was the longest, and yet his head was always below the others; he felt wary of the Ekans even when they slept. No, he thought; this girl, probably fourteen years old, a trainer for a few years already, would never pick him, not when four others pressed ahead against the glass, and she at the head of them, by every right the first to be chosen. And who would take more than one Dratini? for they were slow to mature, the show said, even if they did become powerful, had sharp weaknesses. She came to build up her team: one Dratini, perhaps two, but not him—not the rot in the corner.

But he never imagined this!—a thing so strong, that even as she only studied the table, touched a square, it seemed to fall by steps and levels farther, mounting mathematically: a tingle tracing from the tips of his flares, through his throat (he could hardly swallow now), down his whole length. Some sort of pressure was building; some paralysis seemed to set in, made it difficult to breathe. Perhaps, he thought, in a minute he would overflow and the dragon's fire would fly out, what went through everything—crisp them all! He turned away—and back, for what if she finished and left? Any second the board could flash, and she'd be out the door, not another look behind her. Could he possibly bear, after seeing her, only going to a nursery, all the humans passing or touching him until, in the best case, some simple human family came and took him, left him to curl up on a chair and forget everything? Yet any life with her would only end in horror: the sickness exposed, flung into a little cage or back into the wilds, not for human company. He had to look appealing and then keep it all somehow bottled in; to bear, to hide was the thing.

Something tapped the glass: one of the Sandshrew. The others listened as she said, "[The Ekans said the Abra said she made a bet. If she wins enough for all of us we're all set free and Mr. Game won't keep Pokémon any more. Otherwise she gets nothing no matter what she's won.]"

That was why the man laughed: he didn't believe she was serious, that such a girl could exist who flew into his Corner just to save them, some wilders she didn't even know. And the Sandshrew said she paid an enormous fee; arranged herself one error for fairness; threw herself, in other words, at no chance at all, needing dozens of wins at the highest level even if the man didn't cheat her, and of course he would. But none of them seemed to think clearly now; not in months, not in years as some were, did they see such a thing!

Perhaps, a Dratini said, they only misheard it; perhaps the Abra were having them on. But—and how could he know?—she had the look of one who felt a need beyond it, just to release some Pokémon. It was more personal, he believed, with her: Pokémon weren't meant to be in cages. She would save them if she could—this perfect girl! She paid some outrageous sum and still had to win many times in succession at the eighth level, surely something absurd, ten or more; no one did that. Even if she did (it was technically possible; and she was at the seventh already) Mr. Game would throw up the cheat. How he despised that man! What did she once call him, looking over the cages? A slavering slaver. (Another said the words didn't rhyme.) Now he sat between them and the perfect human, waiting to spring his rotten trap. And she could easily win just one, had already won enough for two of the others. But the Sandshrew had said she surrendered everything unless they all were free. It was the most admirable thing, he thought, the greatest thing he had ever heard.

He moved beside her and said, "[Could she really take us all?]"

"[That's a strange team if she did,]" she said. "[She probably only wants a few. But you know he won't allow it.]"

She had reached the eighth round without an error, every round the same from here, each enough for half a Dratini or more but almost impossible, and now she took longer, looked over many times. There was a documentary on one of the schools in Kanto where talented young humans trained. A boy calculated two absurdly long numbers quicker than the computer. The things a human could do, that even an Alakazam had to work at! Her eyes moved just the same way. So she was that too, perhaps; humans were so wonderfully gifted; how could they possibly reprove? For they thought it fine in her case. She must be delighted, they said, such a girl arrived; would certainly pick her, if she won; was not a trainer worth the time if she did not. And they all now wanted to remind her of their time and conversation, all suddenly pressing near her, what good friends they were, as if she could somehow persuade the girl to take another. None of them knew how it felt to want a thing! They didn't care for her at all, only wanted to get advantage. They wouldn't feel a thing if she lifted them, held them against her neck; wouldn't react at all if she only pecked his nose, only put a hand—oh! the table flashed. The others went silent. The girl had struck a Voltorb.

But did the man cheat her? He didn't catch it; with all their chatter no one saw clearly what happened. But the odd thing was she did not react at all, only looked at the board, held her Flaaffy on her lap.

Mr. Game crossed his legs and seemed to put on a show of magnanimity—he must have done it—savoured it, the rot, but he wasn't calm as usual, wanted her gone, far more than he expected already. He said, "Well, now, that's unfortunate. Back to level four, and another error and that's it, didn't we say? But why don't I make you a new offer? You can finish now, and I'll let you cash in what you have so far—plus fifty percent! That's nearly four thousand, enough for one of every Pokémon here! That's your whole team filled, isn't it?"

He looked to the cages, glanced at her. She was twice the regular cost, of course, still in his hands; but the girl would have enough for any other Dratini: she might leave with him at once! (Of course it wouldn't happen.) So the others thought, each of them twitching, and she felt it, looked to him: that was how far they really counted friendship.

But the girl only looked at the table; and, leaning down to her Flaaffy's ear and whispering something, kissing her on the head—the perfect trainer!—she put the electric Pokémon on the floor, touched the table, and said, "I'll continue."

Mr. Game raised his hand, settled back again. The man would let it go a few more rounds to avoid suspicion, he knew, then send her away with nothing. It would be the last they ever saw her; the rotten man would spend her fee on a hat from Kalos, wear it once and hang it where he had to look every day and remember. She had to know it was rigged! must have worked it out, seeing every option, that his trigger to force the orb was suspicious. There was still a chance; and now she was even more concentrated, leaning over the game grid, a few hairs wrapped around her finger as her Flaaffy rummaged about at the base of the table. One of the living bronze statues of Goldenrod—that was how she looked, he thought, only her skin was less shiny. She rested her hand; she wouldn't act, he thought, until she calculated every probability.

Conversation petered out; everyone knew, he felt, to speak would only jinx it. She had to know how much they wanted it; had to care strongly for Pokémon, oh, more than humans to put herself at, what, how many yen's disadvantage? Only a ridiculous amount would have made the man laugh. The Quilava observed them, seemed intent to be seen near. What sort of trainer was she? She had two Pokémon out of their balls. Usually even the warmest trainers had only one, a sort of representative—why not all? he said. It was certainly fonder than keeping one on one's belt. It always seemed odd, seeing champions on the screen, saying the important thing was the bond between trainer and Pokémon, and there they were on a belt—some bond! Perhaps she gave them many liberties, he thought. Perhaps she spoiled them. Either would do. She was back again at the eighth round.

She said, "[Why doesn't she have more Pokémon?]"

It was fair to ask; most trainers her age had a clutch already evolved. Perhaps—and they would not want to hear this—perhaps she did not really care about battling? Some humans only loved Pokémon, loved to have them near. She would be happy just to sit with a Dratini on her lap; laugh if he touched his nose to her chin; stroke him if he curled around her and, if he slept, only keep still so as not to disturb him. Was she the sort who cared as much for a weak Pokémon as a strong? The Quilava looked hard at them: she knew the girl had come to fill out the team, he thought, and she would have less time for herself—that or she split her time in any case. She'd mind him, then, give him time, even if he was timid; and then waking beside her, tucked beneath her arm, in such a warmth what other want was there remaining?

But what was he thinking? he thought. There wasn't the slightest chance of it; he set himself up for certain torture. So she meant to free them all; it didn't mean she chose him. More likely she passed right over, missed him in the corner even. Mr. Game would shut the cages and sell him on the corner for fifty yen, buy a cup of tea, all that bother done. And all this ignored that she couldn't win, because the man was a rotten cheat; he wouldn't be alone in any case. But when she left some invisible thread, he imagined, would pull apart his skin: there, all the black rot slopped out. It was all over soon in any case.

"[What round is it?]" he said. The third of the eighth, she said.

Impossible choices she made, found the best squares in what seemed a wash of equal risks and losses, not a number under two. Of course there was risk in it—no one could continue forever, took a chance with every game—or perhaps there was a secret method they never spotted, some algorithm in the table only a genius could see? Perhaps she'd know, when Mr. Game cheated, that it was impossible; proved it at once. The round finished. The man had to be worried; kept turning his foot; gave some casual remark: Oh, what luck! The next round, he thought, and Mr. Game would end it. There she was into it now, clearing a zero line at once. It was something about the right timing, that he always looked carefully so he could get away with probability, his shield from all accusations. He shifted his leg: that was the control, some hidden trigger no one would spot under the fabric. Just a press, and the next she touched would be a Voltorb as he liked. What a giant rot he was! They ought to cry out when he tried it and startle him! She was just a few squares away from the next level, just a few left to win them all, and … almost impossible to spot, even looking for it, there it was. Mr. Game brushed his knee against the other, and smiled as she pressed the table.

The square turned over a three.

They must have broken something, crushing him against the glass; he didn't feel it. The Quilava looked at them. Mr. Game brushed his forehead. It was meant to be a certain thing, never failed all the time he used it, but there it was: the orb was lacking. The round ended.

Mr. Game said, "Ah—very good! Would you, ah, like some tea?"

"Please," she said; didn't look up. "Actually would you mind bringing the pot? Dyna likes hers over-steeped." The Flaaffy looked up from below the table. And in any other case, he thought, the man would begin asserting himself, say it was his shop and his tea; but he only stared and went away, back to the little kitchen. Somehow she got the better of him, and did she know? She didn't look up, but she had to feel it, from their excitement, how they knew it was really possible!

But now he felt worse rather than better: now the thing really felt unbearable. For perhaps he was wrong all the time: the sickness he felt was not for humans in general, but her specifically—the others caught up only as approximations of this girl. What kind of fate produced that? he thought, to be built by nature destitute without a one, without any guarantee he would find her, before whose meeting he had only the idea of some great and necessary figure. This girl abolished every one of them—this girl, who just by coming through a door lost his mind. And he would be dead, of course; couldn't live without her, now; ruined entirely, for want of a human who would never feel the same, as no one could. Yet it was worth it, he felt—melodramatic they called him, yes, but wasn't it worth it after all, living in whatever cave alone and then locked up for a year, and now even a future life without her, slipping away as it must, but at least to have seen her, and to know?

She pressed a square and turned a number; and with each, as the options constrained, she chose more quickly; and then the round was over. One of the others said it was only two or three left to finish. Mr. Game returned with the tea. He seemed a little more collected, put the pot beside her, and perhaps— But even Mr. Game was not evil enough to try it, to drug her or some abominable thing just to save his prizes. There were two cups; she gave one to her Quilava, kept the other for her Flaaffy, none for her, didn't even think of herself over her Pokémon. She was perfect, he wanted to say, turning to the others (didn't they see?), and when she's won us—She pulled her pink tail behind her, seemed to turn away.

Mr. Game watched the girl and sipped his tea. This was the point, he thought, as in a few instances before, a phone conversation, a Pokémon delivery gone sour, that he regained his wits and mustered up a righteous indignation. Extraordinary—that was it, his first go. Soon he would accuse her of cheating directly, the wretched man; he tapped his leg again as she pressed but still it came up a number. In the adjacent cage, one of the Sandshrew curled into a ball and quivered. The round ended. The Dratini farthest from him, the rash one, said it was a wrap, and the others shushed him; but the numbers were so high, he saw, so close that this could only be the last one.

He was going to be sick, he thought: she pressed five at once, one of the lines a zero, a lucky spread. Now Mr. Game began again. "This is quite fascinating!" he said. "It's a record, surely. I've never seen a run so long. I didn't think it was possible, such luck."

And the girl—she ought not to speak, only let him distract her!—she tapped the rubber frame and said, "It's not really luck. It's— My tutor used to play with me. He taught me the formula."

Mr. Game looked at her. "A Flip tutor?" he said.

"A maths tutor," she said. "An Alakazam."

And how else would she demonstrate herself? he thought—as if he could be further affected! Suppose she lifted each of them out; suppose he plunged his nose into her hair, let the warmth overwhelm him and faint entirely, and she didn't let him go in case he was seriously ill? He needs us, she'd say, patting the Quilava.

"[Are you all right?]" she said.

After a long pause the girl pressed a square, and no burst; another, and he couldn't look—only heard Mr. Game twist in his seat, no flash or burst, surely just one or two more from the end. He would faint; he would be pressed back, stuffed in his little compartment to be missed, wake up in Mr. Game's hands as he tried to pawn him off to some small child as a doll or such, the very last in stock.

And the girl paused; leant back and called her Flaaffy, Dyna, the name was, helped her back up on the seat—poured the tea. Mr. Game took a cloth from his pocket and pretended to wipe his nose. And as she tousled her Flaaffy's wool, and her Quilava, still looking back at them, suddenly the girl reached forward. Mr. Game coughed and mashed his leg—and with a flash, the next square came up a Voltorb.

"Oh!" he said. "Oh, that's a grave shame, isn't it? Oh, you were so nearly there! But you know how it goes, games and chances—"

But she said, "We won."

That was, he thought, possibly the only thing preventing a faint—that in a second the evil man, looking at her, might actually turn violent, and all depended on uniting as a force to somehow break the glass and save her. He was going to burst into accusations; already he was turning red, starting to straighten up; and then the girl pointed at the table.

"That orb is impossible," she said. "This line was all ones and this is three-three, so it can only be a two and three orbs remaining. This line, with the three, is six-one so it can only be ones and an orb left. I pressed the corner, here, and it shows an orb—but that leaves a one on the three-three line. But with three squares left and three orbs, the line can only come to two-three. So it's impossible. Either the marker or the square has to be wrong. In either case it's a forfeit because it's table error, and by Flip rules I win what I've collected, which is just enough for every Pokémon."

So she knew, he thought; saw it looked suspicious earlier and formed a plan, tricked him into using it on a square that exposed him, if the table really proved it (he did not exactly follow). But how did she block it?

Mr. Game said, "Young girl, my board is in perfect working order—and, if you mean to imply something, you had better be clear. You'll find it's also in the Flip standard that unjustly accusing a licenced proprietor of misconduct is cause for forfeiture—by the player."

The girl looked uncertain, he thought. Of course she was young for a human, possibly still in the Dratini stage—no doubt he would collapse under that look! But she touched her Flaaffy's wool and said, "Also, while Dyna was under your table, she was putting out a static. I know Flip circuits are insulated, but if there's something extra inside that makes it faulty … It only failed after she stopped. So I think that shows the table isn't working properly. The Gaming Control Board will want to look at it, to check what's causing the error."

So she not only knew but guessed the mechanism, some hidden device in the table—and was correct. Mr. Game turned purple. "Are you confessing, little girl," he said, "to tampering with my Flip table, in my establishment?"

"No," she said, "Static can't affect the table. But it might affect something that's tampering with the table. We just can't know without looking inside, and, you know, that means waiting for mechanics from the Board to arrive. But we can do that if you want—they have an office in Goldenrod, don't they? Do you want to call them?"

The man said nothing. But that was worse, he felt, unbearable!

"I don't mind waiting," she said—still trying to make it easy for him, as if she didn't crack his scheme! "If you'd rather not we can just take it all in good faith and agree since, I mean, you can just see the table's wrong. But if you want to follow the Board's guidelines I don't mind waiting to give a statement."

Perhaps that was what the man needed, the idea that they were all witnesses, that the Abra, all psychic, who knew for months he was a cheat, only waited for a chance to spill their secrets on the record and destroy him, for Mr. Game turned; said something indistinct; looked away. And as if some barrier dropped, she smiled and stood.

At once everyone pressed against the glass and he lost his spot. There was no space for friendship now, no thought to how badly he wanted it: all smitten by her, the idea of her, this perfect trainer, though half never even wanted one. She came from nowhere and, in an hour, released them by a feat of mind and strategy an Alakazam would approve, ruined the man as he deserved, and now they all adored her. But none of them really meant it; none of them felt it anything like him.

"I can't take everyone," she said. They ought to give it up! "I can take a few, but more than that and I couldn't give you the attention you deserve. But you'll find a good human at the nursery. They'll give you all a good life."

A good life, he thought—that which the others, natural as they were, had a chance to get elsewhere. Now the girl stood just outside the glass: she had brown eyes. Of course the pink one was first—they wouldn't even fight it—but she had a warm heart, and humans thought Dratini were adorable: mightn't she want more than one? But everyone knew it wasn't possible, if a trainer wanted success, to have two of the same in her team, and by battling standards there was no chance for him at all as—how stupid he was!—he never exercised himself, never really tried to change his nature but let the smallest fears affect him, let himself curl up behind the rest when it ought to matter more than anything she saw him. She opened the glass lid. But to fight for second choice, or third, to tear them back as in the wilds … Her hand was inside the enclosure, actually within his power to touch, to press his nose into her palm and trill, make it clear how much he wanted it! But he was paralysed. She was already lifting her out.

"The trouble with shiny Pokémon," she said, "is people treat them differently when what they need is to be treated just the same—that's what I'll do."

"[Sorry, boys,]" she said, looking back down at them. "[It's been fun. Best of luck.]"

Like that a year's companionship all spent, he thought; like that, she had the trainer she always wanted. She would become a champion and grow extremely happy, they said. And she looked toward him, seemed to want to say—But the girl closed the lid. The great arm withdrew and tightly held another. She walked away toward the other cages; she did not even notice him, thought nothing at all.

Now she went to the Abra and said something, the others still pressed against the glass. Didn't they know it was all over? One of the Abra looked up at her and she opened the lid, and the psychic teleported out, right onto the sofa, gave her both Pokémon a start and the Flaaffy fell off the seat. He could have escaped any time! could have fled and yet it had to be now, taking up her spaces. Perhaps that was the idea, to keep him away, prevent him causing harm, for it was possible they knew all about his sickness, being psychic. But that was absorbed; he was only a rot in a cage; she went to the Abra because she was wise, and knew how powerful they became, a wonderfully clever Alakazam as she knew all about. And her new pink Dratini, for she was hers, now, looked back again—a great Dragonite, she would become. Whereas he would have made a trembling, feeble thing, no use to her at all, only good for letting parcels slip into the sea.

"I don't know if I can take any more," she said.

For Pokémon should have a dedicated human, she said; better to get a young trainer and be their first, or a family, which was just what the nurseries did best, and she would see they all went that same afternoon, that Mr. Game did as he said, and not to worry, and they would all be very happy, and he could not look any more: he withdrew to the back of the cage. He mustn't look, he thought: if there was any chance to prove he could go without, he wouldn't look again; and there, he saw, she was speaking to her Quilava, something about just as much training, and the fire Pokémon looked sourly at the Dratini on her arm.

He looked away. It was all over. He may as well lie down in his compartment and not come out for the nursery people, be forgotten by the rest and, months later, be found as they dismantled the cages, a pile of shed skin and bones.

But wasn't it better, he thought, curling up, if she left? For beyond all doubt he knew he was beyond fixing: this sickness would never leave him, this feeling for humans that in any other Pokémon would be a breeder's flush. Mr. Game looked every morning for an egg but she didn't like them that way; only spent time with him because he didn't bother her. Now she wouldn't think again about him, had her human: the perfect trainer. Any life with such a girl would have been unbearable, always seeing and wanting to be close—so she would let him. She would kiss him on the head, as she did all Pokémon, on the nose, and hold him close. Eventually he would slip: he would let show a warmth reserved for like kinds; and being wise to Pokémon, she would understand precisely his feeling and, finding herself at risk, fling him away. And if she didn't see, if he smothered it, it would only be worse: at the mercy perhaps of a dragon many times her size with unquenchable feeling, possibly in evolution having lost all ability to control it if it only increased all things in proportion, so that he became a beast entirely; seized her; carried her away like some legendary bird to a far-off roost where she could not abandon him. No. Anything could have happened if she took him. His reserves were all spent; he felt only exhausted, now, as if his energies were ready to fade, as if he might sleep through a flute or revival herb, and wasn't that a relief? It would be an end to the sickness, always bound to happen in the end and now, all beyond his control and capacity to escape, it mercifully fell and shattered on top of him. It was for the best she went, he thought, and left him. Did she go already? He did not hear the bell.

But—for it was so still, and everyone, he felt, everyone was watching—as if he were in danger a long time and only just felt it, he turned and—oh! there she was! There she stood at the glass, looking right at him.

She said, "Please don't be sad."

She had seen him; actually noticed and stopped to think, returned to check. And she in her arms looked up at her, for it had to be her, looking back, that made the girl think of it, that he was torn she was leaving, his Dratini friend, and she looked very sorry, and she returned, and she thought of him.

And with her free hand she touched the lid and said:

"Do you want to come with us?"

And at that he did not recall moving; at that he was right against the glass before her, all the others knocked aside, as looking up at her he said the only thing he could communicate:

"_Dra_—!"

If she looked away for an instant, if he blinked, he felt, he would lose her, cut the connection, see her stepping out the door. But she did not look away: she undid the latch without looking, only smiling to reassure him. And then the lid went up, and her hand—

"It's all right," she said. "Shh."

And she needn't hold him: her waist, her shoulder he could not let go. Was it possible he was weightless, he thought, hovering as a Dragonair did, all full of air or fire? For some warmth he never felt before suffused him, something spreading through his middle where her hand touched, through his entire head in her hair, all sensation gone but a berry scent, the slightest bit of damp—whatever it was he could not move, could scarcely feel the wrap now. For the sickness had won: his reason remained in the cage, melted away: all boiled off in a rush of warmth. For now he was her Pokémon, and so she was his human.

She said something to the others, a reaffirmation that they either got a nursery or, if they preferred, returned to the wilds: her voice vibrated through him. She must have thought him such a weak little thing; pitied him; determined he would be lost without his friend, and that as he needed someone to protect him, she would be the one. That was the reason for it: collapsed, she thought, for loss of a pink Dratini. Was it wrong of him to take advantage, then, to go, when if she could see the truth she would throw him right back, lock the lid and call a Jenny? She lifted up his middle again and he coiled tighter, smothered a reflexive tremor into her neck. But that would all sort itself out, he felt; no, none of it mattered now. Why ever worry? And through her hair he felt her other Dratini move across her other shoulder, and looking he saw her nose a few inches from his. Oh! he thought—but now they were together as well. He reached and touched her nose with his; for was there anything better, now, he would say, than this—both finding their perfect trainer and still having each other as friends? She laid her head on the shoulder, looked at him through the strands.

But now the rotten Mr. Game was collecting himself, starting to argue the point, and he wrapped tighter. He was under no compulsion, the man said, not to give Pokémon as prizes: it was perfectly legal, his whole income (a rotten lie), his livelihood. Suppose the man grew violent? Suppose the man grabbed him, pulled him off her like a strip of cloth, all the others kicked away, thrown back in the cage until a Jenny arrived and took him away as evidence? Wouldn't she run? Could the others prevent him? But she only listened—no legal power, he said, no written contract—until finally she said:

"My family said if I ever had a dispute I should call our family's counsel—Stone and Barrow. They're good at this sort of thing. Why don't I call them? Then they can call the Board and send someone over and everything will be fixed."

He knew the name, but where he couldn't remember, some show or report—the big trial? Mr. Game at any rate was not persuaded; he was working up into a fit again; this child, he was thinking, tried to get the better of him, tried somehow to brush him off. "Us rubes in Johto, little lass," he said, "aren't much impressed by names and dangling privilege. We stand our ground and stick to justice, and don't give into threats."

Justice! he thought. The man only knew justice as his own advantage. And he would curl up at such talk; but as if Mr. Game only grew less frightening, the girl lifted his middle again. "I know … I like that about Johto," she said. (Then she wasn't from the region; he could never tell with accents.) "And you're right—I've had too much privilege, and I shouldn't really use it. But there's one case I don't mind."

"Oh?" the man said. "Do say."

"Pokémon," she said. "We'd do anything for them, if we can help."

And the man said, "And who, pray tell, is we?"

And she looked down, held his tail up again as if she were embarrassed to say, and said, "Do you know the Pondelores?"

It was like the touch of a legendary, that word: whatever the man said about names he shut up at once. And what did it mean? But he remembered now, heard it somewhere before, said many times in a short period—a show? A documentary, he thought. That was it, not two months ago, a documentary on an old human family called Pondelore; a long history in Kalos, part of the medieval aristocracy; founded what would become the first Pokémon Centres, worked out a deal with the government at the time that still persisted, gave them constant wealth to that day, bothered many people; lived in an estate valleys wide in Hoenn that bred Pokémon, specialised in shinies; and a history in battling too, gym leaders, even champions behind them, a whole school of training that became a word: pondelorian. And a daughter, they had—not her, this wonderful girl, but older, a trainer as well—one they said may be the next champion.

Then she was what humans called famous; or at any rate she was the daughter of a famous and powerful family. But did the others understand? he thought. For that made the whole thing incredible: this was a girl who could have nearly anything she wanted, could buy the whole Corner if she liked, who in terms of Pokémon might want for any in the world and, like that, they were bred just for her—that power she had! And not an hour ago she entered the Corner and, by pure effort and quality, won their freedom, demanded nothing in return but rather giving of herself, offering without knowing any of them to be their dedicated human for all life, even though they were wilders, even though they were weaker than anyone they might have bred. Could there be a more remarkable creature? he thought; could his nature have fixed on any better? Privilege did not engender such a view she showed for Pokémon, but the opposite: from a life of power and wealth derived through Pokémon, she turned away, said she would only use it for their good. And she had to know, looking over her shoulder, what a girl they found! She had to know everything was different.

"Let me just call Steven Stone," the girl said, reaching past him to her bag. "It's obviously bothering you and I don't want you to think I'm acting outside law or justice."

"No, no, please," he said. And he called her a little lass! "Of course, I didn't mean to suggest, Miss … Manda?"

And she knelt down to her Quilava, who looked quite ready to leave. "Runa," she said. "Her sister."

Runa, he thought: Roo-na. A red moon, he imagined, a total lunar eclipse (so said a documentary): the convergence of heavenly bodies. Which was not to say he was heavenly, but such was the image: this girl, Runa Pondelore, occluding every part of him but the warmth itself. The rest would get a nursery that very day, she said, and find their good trainers or families, and she would call the Stone and the Barrow to check they arrived happily.

And that was it: she went to the door, and the man only stood, folded his arms and looked past her at the store window, the picture of a pink Dratini on the glass. The Abra teleported after; the Quilava glowered up at them; the Flaaffy picked at her wool and waddled. And then they were out into the air of Goldenrod City, all tall and broad and white, what they never saw from inside; and across the road a horn chirruped, some long car waiting for her, and she said it was just to move everyone, that they walked the routes, only arrived in Goldenrod yesterday and would be off again in a week, by which time they would be already a perfect family, and they would see the Pokémon Centre and be very healthy, and the markets to get anything they may want, and now they could decide, she said, looking and crossing the street toward the car as the window rolled down and a driver wearing glasses looked and smiled, what they wanted to do. For they had to have dreams; and she, she said, was to help achieve them.

But what did he ever want apart from this? He pressed his nose into her hair.


	2. Level 20 - National Park (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF version in my profile!**  
Chapter split into two parts for ease of reading in chunks (first with scenes 1-2, second with scene 3)  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 20**

Runa said Pokémon were just the same as humans—let that be given. What sort of human was a crawling dependant? What sort only ate and rummaged and drained resources? An infant—that's what he reduced to, hung off her like a human child who didn't speak but only wanted things. Yet a child, as it went, grew up; necessarily matured in every faculty; enflamed a maternal warmth. That was a human, evolving steadily. Then what about a Dratini who didn't battle?

It was all his fault, of course. Every time she looked at him it came in a rush: the warmth, the trembling, the thought of being apart. When she lifted him up, he seemed to fall out of his body; when she kissed him between his flares, he couldn't see. Just to be in the room with her was exhausting. So when he had a choice in the matter, a way to please her, to improve, was it any wonder he chose wrongly?

—Oh, we do train. We spar—not with wild Pokémon! But you don't have to, Shadow.

For she understood Pokémon like no other human, saw him flinch at the word as she said it—gym—and followed his understanding (she would find him out eventually): he couldn't bear to battle, always hated it in the wilds. So she said he didn't have to: the trainer, letting her team lie about, acting only to drain her.

—I won't force you do anything, Shadow. (He couldn't look at her.) That's my philosophy. It's wrong to order Pokémon about as if they weren't people. If you don't want to be a battler, that's fine—I'll help you figure out what you want to do.

What could he say? He did not move. His skin seemed to melt into one mass, like the cinnamon bun she bought him, sitting on a paper on the hotel bed as she said, to all of them, Shadow didn't have to battle, and that was all right. And at that, her Quilava only smiled.

That was three weeks ago, and since then, he had done nothing at all.

* * *

There across the hill she sat with Gaia and Tanwen. It was her method of training: a spar, quit before anyone was close to fainting; a talk on strategy whilst drinking aprijuices, relaxing now in the shade of a tree in National Park; and again as felt fit—nothing whatever like what they called pondelorian, the disciplined training her family pioneered. What was it to them, he thought, to Gaia, to be that much more minded? Already she was top in the team, sharing the spot with Tanwen, much to the Quilava's displeasure. They applied themselves to battle (a joy, Gaia said, after the cage)—made Runa proud. When she held them, or spoke to them, it had to feel deserved. But as surely as if the cage's glass were still between them, stretching off into the sky, he was apart: his nature went two ways, one in a ribbon following her, the other stuck in the ground behind; so he would keep stretching longer and tighter, and eventually tear in two.

He was being melodramatic, of course. He took another piece of the apple, one of the yellow ones Runa sliced up for him; for he was wonderfully well off, far better than anyone in the wilds, wanted for nothing, had Runa—didn't have her as they did, but was it necessary? None of them seemed to know their fortune, to see her qualities as he did (didn't know humans like him). Dyna, the Flaaffy, was almost indifferent; she spoke freely about Runa's silliness in some way or other, mistakes on her part; but between her bouts of sass he could see she was really devoted to her, really thankful to be out of the wilds. Then there was Torus, the Abra, who said nothing, did nothing, only slept and meditated. But the Abra evolutionary line was one of those whose early form was weak and cocoon-like, a sort of latter egg-stage which, at the first evolution, became a thing much more powerful. It was worth Runa carrying him about, even if he was heavy (a ball, Runa said, being totally out of the question), even if he slept eighteen hours a day, for when his powers matured he would be a great Pokémon, a valuable member of the team. As for Tanwen, she left nothing in doubt about her effort. She had always been first in the team, she said, and always would be.

—Because dragons take years to evolve. (She looked at him and Gaia.) And I'm not afraid of ice.

Runa was bound to be champion, Tanwen said, and as she didn't need any hindering, as she needed Pokémon who carried their weight, if he must follow along, was the meaning (all in her look), he ought not to exceed his portion but make an effort; ought to puff their pillows; ought to see he didn't weigh them down. Battlers, she said, were a different class—her meaning being that as she was bred specially on the Pondelore estate, was of the very highest quality (the breeding and testing certificates proved it, she said), she wouldn't tolerate being shut out in attention by one who didn't apply himself. If he thought battling a nasty business, that same institution by which human society saved them from living on rot in the wilds, he might spare Runa his sad company and leave.

The trouble in Runa giving them all such liberty, he thought, only wanting them happy, was that a useless Pokémon might only take advantage of her. And Tanwen applied herself, and Gaia, Dyna, even Torus in a few spars; whereas he only watched and slept and ate apples. And what did Runa want? That they grew, she said. Battling was one way to grow a Pokémon; apples only grew him wider.

"[Catch it!]" Dyna said.

The basket tipped over on the picnic cloth, apples and lemons rolling over him; Dyna scowled and tumbled after, said he was slow, snatched them off the grass. —I'm done with grass, she had said; —I was fed up of it years ago. For a wilder, caught with her own consent, she was unusually averse to nature. Without a word she pulled out his tail and formed a net to hold the loose fruit, pinning the tip under Torus's foot, who only sat still, meditating; and piling the rest in, she sat on the cloth eating an apple, one of the small, bitter ones he didn't like, directly in front of him.

"[Why are you moping, now?]" she said.

He oughtn't speak. She looked at him and said, "[Come on, it's a beautiful day and all that. Don't tell me you're sick.]"

"[I—]" he said. "[I was just wishing Tanwen liked us more. We ought to all get along, shouldn't we? For Runa.]"

"[It's because they try too hard,]" she said, itching her wool, "[and Tanwen's a little princess who's got to be the middle of everything, you know? You take her thunder one second and she'll squeeze Aguav juice in your wool while you're napping.]" She ate the apple core and licked her hand. "[Was good, though.]"

By the tree, Tanwen was talking and Runa listened closely, nearly seemed to follow. "[It's better, though,]" he said, "[trying hard. I wish I could do something.]"

Dyna sucked her hand and said, "[You really like Runa, uh?]"

Of course he was transparent, couldn't possibly hide that he was at least very fond of Runa. "[Sh— She couldn't be a better human,]" he said. He was a clod, a dangerous fool; and both she and Tanwen knew Runa a long time, after all, several months already, so how did it look, this new one, coming out of nowhere and being suddenly devoted to her?

"[Eh,]" Dyna said. "[Maybe. I know other humans wouldn't let you lay about. I mean she basically says we can do what we want all the time—that's kind of a score. So why d'you say trying hard's better?]"

Because, he thought, it was unbearable only to take; because rotten as it was to think, seeing Runa close to others seemed to mean he must recede. But Dyna—

"[Oh, I get it,]" she said. What did he let slip? "[You want to impress her, don't you? Then you can get all up in her lap and she'll love you and that. Ha! You're just as bad as Tan.]"

"[I—]" he said. But she was right, of course—worse than Tanwen was all.

"[See, I know things,]" she said. "[More than that one.]" That was to Torus; the Abra did not move.

He said, "[It's just—]" and now Dyna stood and placed an apple on Torus's head. "[I just want to help. Runa's done so much … everyone's helping but me. I could have battled but, but I didn't, and now I'm no use.]"

Dyna leaned forward and dug through the apples, pulling out a bag of miniature limes he hadn't seen amongst them. "[Yep,]" she said, tossing one high into her mouth. "[Thash righ'.]"

He looked away. Why should they hide it, how they saw him? It was like the cage again, only Gaia really caring, and now that she had her liberty and her trainer, even she would tire of him.

"[But you know why you're no use?]" Dyna said. "[You aren't finding a use. You were locked up so long watching humans you didn't know what to do if you actually got one. It's like you atta— … at, atra—]" Then she glared at Torus and said, "[I knew it! Atrophied! Pencil face.]" Was that Torus, he thought, telling her by the psychic? Dyna threw a lime that bounced off the Abra's carapace. "[It's 'cause you got all soft and lazy laying there—no one likes that. If you just did something Runa'd love you and everything.]"

"[But what?]" he said. For battling was hopeless, like building a tower on marshmallow: anything involving him was weaker. In the cave, he recalled, he rarely succeeded; only avoided injury when the other spooked and thought he was powerful, fled the spot; fainted constantly, he was sure, and couldn't remember because the memory, they said, was the first thing to go.

"[What's she always say?]" she said, now balancing another apple on the first. "[She says she's happy if we're happy. That means, like, our dream or something. And what's yours?]"

To fly into Runa's arms, he thought: to slip under her shirt and bury his nose in her neck. He looked at Torus. Did Abra hear that sort of thinking? But the psychic never moved. He said, "[I don't know.]"

"[That's why Runa's silly,]" she said. "[I mean, we're not even all evolved yet. How are we supposed to know?]"

It was rotten, he thought, saying things like that, as if Runa didn't understand her own philosophy—one about the wants of Pokémon, about what they wanted in life. It was nothing like the other trainers, not even the champions; it was something they ought to defend without question.

"[D'you know what my dream is?]" she said, sitting in front of him. "[When I was in the wilds, Route 32, it wasn't easy—eating grass and that, lots of punk trainers about. Back then I just wanted a nice orchard or some place, you know? Just something better. Well, Runa fixed me right up—I guessed right when I saw her! She always has what we want because her family's loaded and pays for everything. So I've got it already, my dream—I'm already happy, you know? Basically it's just to keep it now.]" She looked across the hill. "[I mean … I mean I don't really like battling. Don't tell Tan! I'll clock you! It's just for Runa I do it. 'Cause whatever our dream and that is, what Runa really wants is us to grow, and battling's the quickest way. So I train for Runa and she thinks it's my dream, and that way we're both happy. And I'm being a use.]"

Of course for her it was that simple, he thought, she who was the very opposite of timid. She secured her position—that was all it was—put herself out and battled, tricked Runa, yes, but for her own happiness by letting her think it was what she wanted when her dream, for all purposes, was already accomplished: out of the long grass, and now to enjoy herself. Still, he thought, to mislead Runa! to trick her and make out his want as something different was the very definition of rot: it was only compounding the lies, how he really tricked her into taking him, and that could hardly make it better, could it? And this was all ignoring that if he tried, actually battled for her, he would certainly fail, and become even less in her eyes—not for failing, but as would become clear for proving incapable of action at all, incapable of growth, amounting to nothing.

Yet suppose, he thought, seeing again the apple slices (still fresh, as Runa saw he sometimes didn't finish them quickly, and now she prepared them in some sort of special water), suppose she thought like a mother? In human society, as he understood it, mothers were always some degree apart, had to be to raise one properly; and at the same time, they did not abandon. Supposing his sickness became clear to her, she ought to let him go, for her sake—which was proof he really cared, he felt, that he could admit it—but as a mother she may not. As a trainer was the thing: trainers were practical, prepared to think of the unity together and what didn't match it … though one had the sense with Runa, he thought, that to her training was only a temporary thing, that her future had far greater awaiting. Some great accomplishment, something with Pokémon, would be her legacy—her philosophy spreading throughout the world. Runa, as was perfectly fit, would change everything. And to think he was one of the few she chose, would accompany her to greatness and see her evolve! But it would be next to impossible if all the while she kept a useless scarf-Dratini around her, diminishing her in others' eyes.

"[I've got to train,]" he said. He'd been a fool and a rot, he thought—he had to fix his error. "[She'll never— I'll never grow, if I don't.]"

Torus teleported away and all the fruit tumbled on the grass, and Dyna said "_Flaaf_!" and went after them. That was Torus, he thought—the Abra appeared a short distance away, still meditating—probably weary at the rambling talk of those who didn't know their own minds. No, he thought, the psychic didn't hear his thinking, not yet, or he would show a sign—that was another thing to fear. Some day he would inform her, for her protection, perhaps; calculate and determine he was this much more a risk than a benefit; find out how to get rid of him with a minimum of difficulty, so that Runa was rather glad than upset about it. How absurd it all was, he thought, this thinking! as if he could only rationalise, work out how things ended months ahead like an Alakazam. If she left him, if something happened to her, he would die—no time of grief, no comfort from the others: he would become a husk of skin. His heart would stop and they would have to uncurl his stiff body from her leg, or from whatever jagged rocks he threw himself over. The only chance was to be essential to her, to grow and evolve and, if there was slightest chance, to wipe it all out.

"[So you're going to battle?]" Dyna said.

But it was all very sudden to be talking like this! he thought, not to mention that he'd fail at once, that it was the last thing he wanted, the whole institution of battling always seeming to him abhorrent, all worked up on the screens. Yet it was really only by battling, by experience and exercise against other Pokémon as in the wilds, that a Pokémon naturally grew and evolved; and wasn't to grow the entire reason Runa wanted them to pursue a dream? And with Runa it was not regular battling anyway; there was not as much to gain with only spars stopping short of the faint, but it was a steady way, certainly with exercises enough to fix on a particular strength, not the random sort of training other trainers' Pokémon received on the routes. Runa didn't like to battle wilders, said to force one into battle was no different from beating up strangers; but in a family, as it were, with everything mutual, there were no hard feelings. And she gave medicine after every spar! Wasn't it the most wretched, feeble Pokémon in the world who couldn't bear that? Was that how he looked to Runa?

"[Yes,]" he said. It was going to start today; Runa couldn't think of him like that any longer. "[I've got to start! You … you don't mind, do you?]"

And Dyna laughed, bit her lime sharply: a spark came out. "[You're the one hardly minding!]" she said. "[If you're really serious you're gonna have to step up, or roll or whatever. You're gonna have to pull your weight, you know? It's a long way before you can impress Runa, but maybe. So here,]"—she stood and dropped directly in front of him, nearly touching, and he couldn't help but pull back—"[pretend I'm a scout, you know, looking for potential. You've got to impress me first! You've got to show you've got ability.]"

"[A— Ability?]" he said. Did she mean the shedding skin? For not even that he did well, lost it all in patches at random, never a use in battle.

Dyna crossed her arms. "[How 'bout Oblivious?]" she said. "[Let me lay it out for you, Shadow, how those two see it. There's five of us, okay? Right now Tan is mostly number one, and Gaia's right behind her and they're both trying hard as they can, and between us Tan's going to lose in the end and she knows it and it's driving her wild and it's hilarious. So then I'm third, 'cause I fight but I'm not a bug about it, and then Torus because he's a lump and only comes into battles to look or something. And then there's you, and you'd be fifth but you don't actually battle so it's more like four plus one where the one is you alone on some rock, watching. But if you were battling … you know, Dratini are kind of weak. You are! You're just stronger in the end is all. But dragons can learn lots of moves—even electricity! That's what I mean by abilities, your special powers. I'm the scout—it's you against them! What've you got no one else has?]"

But what was there? he thought. Only what Gaia said set him apart from the other Dratini, of having a mind (only being kind to him) because he followed human things, and what was that in battle?

"[Runa says I'm six-foot seven,]" he said. And twelve pounds, she measured; he ought to be eight.

Dyna jabbed him in the middle, to make him flinch, he knew, and of course he couldn't prevent it. And (now he was turning pink) she said, "[Please. You're like a Caterpie. Did you used to faint every time you saw a Feebas? How you survived in the wilds I don't know but you won't make it till you fix your nature.]"

She was right, of course; Runa didn't need a battler who effected his own paralysis. But imagine that, he thought—just to change one's nature! If it was so simple there was another thing he'd remove before his timidity. And yet—yet—why did that seem a frightful thing itself, to lose even this unnatural attraction to humans? (Certainly that set him apart.) For there was something in it, that to lose such a large part of him, that somehow he himself—Runa and the others had finished training.

She was reading a book, had her glasses on again, as Gaia and Tanwen ate their lunches. She stayed with them, he thought, for after all they were really the team: he and Dyna were the ones on another blanket. It was the privilege of the hard-trying to have first attention. She only worried, she had said, he might be bored without training; and so every night she read to him, just a chapter or two of some story, the sort of thing families did on the shows. Oh!—but that, he thought, taking one of the apple slices, that was a thing she must never feel, that she had to work for his happiness, a constant drain—

"[That's another thing,]" Dyna said, grabbing his middle. "[There's no muscle here at all. Eating apples every day isn't going to help if you aren't spending that energy! She goes through all that effort making them and how's it paying back?]"

"[I—]" he said; but with such an abundance of flaws, he thought, what would a true observer think, like those humans who could judge a Pokémon's quality with just a look? And she was right: he was too large for a Dratini, was actually thicker than the rest even the day he arrived in Goldenrod despite always starving in the wilds, so that, as Tanwen and Dyna looked at him and Gaia said

—It's a condition. And there wasn't exactly a gym in there,

yet even Gaia sometimes thought the same, he knew, that he didn't make enough effort, though even starving himself there was a part that never shed away. Some Pokémon were just that way, Gaia said. But until they evolved Runa was stuck carrying all their necessities: fruit and rice and bottles of aprijuice, medicine, the portable shelter and blankets, all kinds of effects, and of course Torus in her arms—all carried about while the rest of them gaily followed wanting snacks and entertainment and attention, and none more burdensome than him. If only he was born a good Dratini! Then everything would be different: he'd be right beside Gaia, under the tree, and Runa would always read beside him.

"[I'm a big gummy, I know.]" he said. "[I'm sorry.]"

"[Don't say you're sorry!]" she said, falling back and chewing her lime.

For a long moment she seemed to regard him, as if trying, he felt, to find a single good quality and—being the fairer judge, after all—drawing short. "[Look, it's not a bad thing,]" she said, kindly he thought—"[being kind of fat. Maybe it'll help with ice attacks, you know? Dragons hate all that. And you're really long! That helps, if you aren't too slow. What you need,]"—she poked him—"[is to be super fast. Or don't you know the quicker one always wins?]"

On the hill the others were moving. Runa checked her bag, the supplies, possibly calculated the rate of depletion. The medicine pouch was foremost on her backpack, and the food was most buried away. Was it possible, he thought, if he did not make an effort soon, she would release him? say it was not what she meant by helping him, only enabling his bad habits? Suppose he lead her to break her ethic by commanding a Pokémon, even something so simple as to exercise? No, he thought; no, he was being absurd. He would finish the apple, not let it go to waste (that was a worse thing, spoiling supplies); but this state of things, he felt, was as bound to fail eventually as if evolution didn't check his sickness.

"[Look,]" Dyna said, and she was, he saw, actually frowning. "[I feel … bad for you, okay? Be glad I care! But what can I do? I mean, this is all change in yourself stuff and that. But maybe if you ask her Gaia can help. Tell her you want to battle, and I bet she will. I mean, you're not really a threat to her, you know? No offence.]"

* * *

Chapter continues in next part


	3. Level 20 - Route 36 (Scene 3)

**Link to PDF version and other sources in my profile**  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter continues from previous part (Level 20, Scenes 1-2)

* * *

The last twenty years, the screens said, had seen a surge in transportation and development throughout all the regions. Why walk when you can ride? went the thinking; but then, Why cut a forest when you can fly over it? was the addition. They called it progressive infrastructure; and for years now the Pondelores and the Stones had pressed for extensions of the Magnet Line, Runa said, partially funded it themselves. The great legs of the line stood high above the landscape, a sort of bridge they passed under shortly into the forest. The line would pass through Olivine City and all the way down the coast; in five or six years, they said, it would reach all the way to Hoenn Region, crossing what would be the longest rail bridge in the world to merge with the high-speed line between the cities of Rustboro, Slateport, and Lilycove—thus connecting the Pondelore and Stone commercial empires to the other regions in a powerful way. Runa didn't like it, so many rails; but it was better, she said, than the alternative, that under the inexorable want to expand and develop, humans trampled and paved such natural paths as Route 36 through the great forest, which, she said, pointing up, had much the same canopy as it did a thousand years ago, even though it was the main road from Goldenrod to Ecruteak. —At least this way the habitat is safe, Runa said; better a few rails than highways everywhere as in Unova. They would just walk, she said, and avoid the long grass, and not approach any wild Pokémon.

—Yes, let's not hurt their feelings, Tanwen said. (Runa put wilders, the Quilava felt, over her own Pokémon.)

For all his conversation with Dyna, he couldn't speak to Gaia, and now the Flaaffy grew impatient. Any other team, she seemed to say, and they'd be battling things left and right, and he'd be expected to join in at any moment and like it; yet here he was afraid of sparring with friends, of even speaking to Gaia as Runa paused to check her guide. Here the wilders watched them pass, and Tanwen was spoiling for a fight, and Runa said, —Only if they want to, and Gaia stayed near because there were powerful fire-types and she may be needed, and how could he approach when she was right beside Runa? Suppose Runa looked when he came near and he froze up, as of course he would; suppose he stammered and made a wreck of it, said something about wanting Runa, and Gaia rebuffed him, came to suspect, and checked that Runa kept him at a distance?

They were slipping away, he felt, both of them, together growing closer and away from him. So it would be, he thought: a pink Dratini becoming a pink Dragonair, and a pink Dragonite, or was it another colour? but standing out at any rate, up on all the screens: Runa and her Dragonite, and he, curled up round Gaia's foot (as she would have feet) like a warmer. And suppose, as this was a horrid fate already, she tread on him, squashed him flat—how far would they really be affected? Runa would lose a hanger-on, a Pokémon who only demonstrated that her philosophy of training failed in certain cases; whereas lacking Gaia, or finding her bothered in any way, Runa was harmed directly.

But now (the whole talk was an error!) Dyna pressed him: a real gum, she called him; she would use him as an exercise bag, she said, club him on the brain if he lingered any longer, or grab Runa herself. —Don't make me tell her you're tired, she said, and even that did not do it: every time he tried he couldn't move.

Finally Dyna gave a great groan, and Runa looked; and seeing her Flaaffy doubled over, she said they could rest a while, and she reopened the map on her phone.

"[Hey, Gai!]" Dyna said, and pushed him flat. Before he righted himself he found Gaia's white nose above him. "[He's got a question—you know, in private.]" And the Flaaffy made a great show of walking off, interfering with Runa's bag.

"[Oh?]" Gaia said.

"[I—]" he said.

And why, he thought, should it be so difficult to speak? How many months of solid conversation did they have in the cage? But now they were out of the Corner, he felt, and she had her trainer, no longer forced to get along, nothing could be taken for granted in friendship. She had a name now—always had been just her or she, only one girl in the cage—after some myth: Gaia, the goddess. A torus was some unusual shape in mathematics; Tanwen meant white fire; Dyna, she said, came from dynamo, that human generator of electricity; and he was Shadow: a lack of light. For perhaps Runa felt him cold and clammy, lifting him up, like he just came from the cave, like she imagined he would always be hiding from sight. For all their time together in the Corner, so Gaia had fully expected, once she had a trainer, to leave them all behind, and so she nearly did without the slightest difficulty—and then he came along as well, and she had to keep talking. But she was looking at him; and she was patient, but at the same time, she knew she would hear it eventually.

"[I was thinking maybe I could battle,]" he said.

She looked at him … she needn't take so long! "[Really?]" she said.

"[I was being a rot,]" he said, his regular admission, of course, which knowing him so long she hardly noticed now. "[I want to be a use to Runa. Are you— Is that okay?]"

But Gaia frowned. She was glad he came, she had said, but it had to look odious, as if he played pathetic in the cage to steal her trainer, and now was even after her training. She said, "[It's your decision. Honestly this is a surprise. Runa said it's okay if you don't battle, and I know you don't want to. How many times did you say it was horrible?]" She looked to Runa, Dyna watching from behind her knee. "[But if you've really changed your mind, it's good you did now instead of months from now. I don't think we're sparring in the forest, but in Ecruteak Gym I'm sure you'll get lots of time.]"

"[You aren't mad?]" he said. She ought to be more cross, he thought, had a right to be, for wasn't he really intruding? She had to know that any battle he took was one less for her, the same species. "[I mean, for taking time. I don't want you to get less attention!]"

But Gaia smiled. "[I can wait,]" she said. Didn't she say once it was a lifelong thing, to grow? A Dragonite lived for three hundred years. "[In fact, I think you battling is a fine idea. It's Tanwen you ought to worry about. She won't approve at all.]"

He looked: Tanwen was watching them, wondering, perhaps, if they meant to somehow complicate her. You are a rot, she would say, changing your mind like that. For she liked if he was harmless, not a threat to her position—now he had to be accounted for, kept in line, as she tried with the others. It would ruin the team, she said, by that look (of course she knew); and she must protect it, argue every time he wanted training, harass Runa on his account, and doubly so for his being a liar. But then Tanwen looked away, to Torus, who was sleeping on the grass.

The air moved, and—oh! Runa was right beside him! She knelt next to Gaia.

"I think she's decided," Runa said. What was that? "Tan will battle, all right? We don't want anyone hurt." Then Runa went to Tanwen.

But what did it all mean? he thought. Gaia looked at him and leaned close. "[It's a Vulpix,]" she said, nodding toward the grass. "[She's been following a while now. Runa thinks she wants to be captured—come on.]"

The fox Pokémon must have tracked them for hours without his noticing, so fixed he was on Runa. She stood a short distance from the trees. And why not? he thought: who wouldn't want to follow this girl, a human who dedicated her life to the dreams of Pokémon? If the wilders only knew her they would all be in a line; and as if the trees bowed over to shelter this spot for this encounter, kept in waiting how many years? this one Vulpix, out of all, arranged to meet her. Possibly she followed and rejected dozens of trainers before her, knew none of them were right; was once a battler and, fleeing her trainer, sought a good human; judged Runa the best she ever saw. And Runa's team would be full once he and the Vulpix joined; it would be if they all met in the Corner, beginning to battle the same day; they would become the very best of friends!

"Just so the ball can work, Tan," Runa said, reaching into the very bottom of her bag. (Was that where she kept them?)

And this, he thought, was perhaps the most amazing thing about Runa, of all her qualities: unlike every other trainer in the world, not a champion or leader to compare, she never commanded battles. It was against her philosophy, she said, to order Pokémon, and why should it be any different in a battle? Rather the whole point was to teach them to think independently: that was what the conversations were for, discussing and training tactics so that, just as a wilder must, they would make a good decision on the spot. For in all the battles he saw it was, Go, Gengar! or, Quick Attack!—and yet, said Runa, who was more fit to choose in battle than Pokémon themselves? And what if there was a mist, she said, or a block to her sight? It was terrible when a Pokémon was only knocked about, unable to be directed by a blind trainer. So she only spoke to end a spar, or if she worried that they were injured.

But that with Runa a battler had greater liberty than any other in the world didn't wipe away the brute horror of the thing itself, one Pokémon flying at another with snarls and fire! Tanwen set off a flame wheel at once—for bred Pokémon in particular enjoyed it, relished the fight when any born wilder knew it was an evil—drowned out the Vulpix's little ember. She jumped back and growled; couldn't match the Quilava's leer, didn't know what she was up against. Now Tanwen rushed forward and knocked her in the middle, and she gave a cry and fell back.

How pointless it was, all this! (Runa hated it as well, he knew, looking up at her.) Why must Pokémon fight each other just to grow, to build up energies and evolve? Humans did it gradually only by living and learning; it was called bad behaviour if a human fought another, pulled apart by a Jenny. The Vulpix only wanted to join them; but the Poké balls, the only way Runa could claim to protect them in human law (had them in her bag somewhere and never took them out), required a weaker energy to work, and that meant a battle. (That he was captured at once was proof his energies were weak.) Runa had to relink them in the Poké Centre and the feeling was just as he recalled: suspended and floating and unsure whether he was conscious at all. And Runa would let the Vulpix out at once; but with any other trainer, that would be most of her life.

The Vulpix was already tired out, and Runa said it was enough. But what a different life she would have, this wilder! She already knew it; was pleased, he saw, to see the ball. In a flash of red light, the Vulpix was inside, and presently it settled and clicked—Runa's team was finished.

In a second the Vulpix was out again and Runa applied a potion.

But … and how did that drama once put it? Could his sickness be all bad (so he reasoned, so he rationalised) when, insofar as it raised in nearly everything Runa did, it succeeded to show most strongly not when she spoke, nor touched him, but when she did a thing that could only be called noble or good? A minute ago she didn't even know this Pokémon: now she committed to tend her indefinitely. The wellbeing, the want of Pokémon was not an abstract to Runa, but her want, her wellbeing to provide. And suppose he did battle; fell spent after a long match, nearly failed but felt Runa watching and rallied to win; lay down as she tended to him, applied potions and creams (stroked them in) and said he was wonderful, and won't you rest in my lap?

He really had no shame, he thought. The Vulpix recovered under Runa's medicine and everyone surrounded the new arrival. The Vulpix seemed radiant, victorious, though she lost the battle: her plan succeeded, had her human. Runa introduced them, Gaia, Tanwen standing close with her arms folded, Torus who was awake again, Runa touching each as she named them, Dyna—and Shadow, who, being such a wreck that he hid behind the Flaaffy (so she must think), Runa did not touch him.

"There's a Ninetales in my family's history who had a part in founding it," Runa said. "She was there when they helped bring peace to the factions in Kalos. Some of the ladies were called Marguerite after her, but maybe you'd prefer the original—Rita. What do you think?"

"_Vulpix_," Rita said. Runa put her ball in a cloth, hid it away in her bag.

But Dyna looked at him. One more, she meant: that's one more taking Runa; and you'll be sixth in a minute, if you don't step up. And suppose she turned out to be a great battler? Suppose others in the forest came? Runa was taking a picture of the scene, something perhaps to mark the occasion. Oh, he thought—would she carry her? She carried him for hours the first day. Was he going to be forgotten?

Tanwen with some apparent effort said, "[From one fire type to another, I welcome you out of the wilds. If you thought you understood humans from watching, forget it—Runa's not like other trainers. She won't mind you being lax, particularly as fire's already covered. If you follow.]"

Rita looked about slowly. "[O yes,]" she said, and placed her paw on Tanwen. "[I shan't impact your pleasure. I've seen enough humans in these rotten woods to know that yours wasn't a hard one—I'm sure my getting involved isn't necessary.]" And she looked at him.

But he was responsible, he thought, looking away. She only meant to take advantage of Runa, never thought of her at all!—only saw two dragons and, as he clearly didn't battle, saw Rita, only lived on charity, Runa had to be a mark, like the sort of hopeful child Mr. Game smiled at. To this Vulpix, Runa was just a ticket out of the wilds, and into human luxury. She would never battle or assist; probably leave as soon as she learned Runa's family was wealthy and had a grand estate; solicit her for a fire stone; laugh and think she played her, had profited, that they were all for her amusement!

But—he looked about the group, all but Torus asking things—surely they did not think the same of him, that he only took advantage of Runa? More than once Tanwen looked directly at him, as if to say, The only way you'd be worse is if you took time. (Never mind Tanwen, Gaia said.) Now Tanwen looked pleased, hearing Rita: a competitor quit the field from the start; they would never argue.

Rita said, "[Tell me, a lot of trainers live rather hand to mouth, foraging for things on the ground. Yours is rather weller off, isn't she?]"

Yours! he thought. Dyna said, "[Yeah, she's loaded. Her family owns like fifty valleys and a big mansion in Hoenn.]"

"[O,]" said Rita, "[well, I hope to see Hoenn some day.]"

They continued toward Ecruteak, Dyna and Tanwen hanging back to probe Rita as Runa carried Torus as before; some part of him, he felt, some vital fluid, drew out behind them in a rotten trail. Dyna's vision of the team stretched up like a ladder: he at the bottom rung, and now another, this Rita. If he could not even clear some selfish Pokémon who wanted nothing but luxury, he was nothing, worse than a rot.

Or perhaps, he thought (for Runa was happy, looking back every minute), perhaps Rita was just what he needed: a rung below him. He would be fifth of six, then, with just a little effort—no higher but no longer least of all. Then with effort he might overtake Dyna, as she said, or Torus until he evolved. Then he would be third of six—the top half! He would be right under Tanwen and Gaia, Runa's champions, one of those (just a few feet farther) to whom she turned before anything. She would ask him what he was thinking, how he felt, and then, feeling his devotion … But what, he thought, could he do? (He fell back again.) To advance in the team, to move up Dyna's hierarchy of players, not even to be a major character (those melodramas again that Gaia called rot but really had a powerful insight into humans) but to hold even the smallest part in it, seemed a project so absurd it wasn't sane to consider. He had surely fled more battles in the wild than won; never had he produced the dragon's fire; Runa was quite inaccessible.

(The party turned north at the junction, toward Ecruteak City—a historical city, Runa said.)

Still, he thought, she was happy to have him; still it was all she wanted. Her warmth for Pokémon was unlike any other human. And she said, more than once, that she really thought Pokémon were like them, and they were like Pokémon.

—As far as I know we all have brains. We all understand things, and speak in languages. What difference really is there?

So at least his sickness agreed; but no one could look at him and think he was like a human, not in any sensible power. It was only Runa's love for all Pokémon that let her think it. So long as they were happy, she said, so she would be too. But suppose he felt the same, only wanted her happy—how would that work? Only by taking on another thing, something that helped him grow, as Runa also liked but didn't say, and letting her think she wanted it: to battle. Then Runa would be happy and he also. To grow, to battle was the thing. He would evolve when flushed with strength, being comfortable around Runa, not thinking that way at all but honouring her, making her proud; and then the evolution would come and wipe it all out, all the fear and trembling wash away and—But there was a Growlithe in the grass ahead. Runa stopped between them.

He oughtn't feel such a fright, just to see another wilder! but he was leering at them, wanted them gone, looking right at him. But this was one of the thoroughly wild ones, he thought, with the roughest natures who only loved to battle, that every wilder learned to avoid—what Tanwen would be without her breeding. In a moment Runa would only say to give the wilder a wide berth. And why was Gaia looking back at him? he thought, when in a minute—oh! but she meant he ought to volunteer! It was his chance to impress Runa, she meant.

Now it was not so straightforward; now it all seemed a horrible idea. To be a battler in principle, he thought, was all very well, but to actually do it, to throw himself in! It was a year at least since he even accessed the energies; he would fail to make a single move, use up all of Runa's medicine, her goodwill; bring all the others into half-finished battles and anger them and bust up the team. Until now, he could say, it was only unknown to them if he was very useless—after this they would know.

But Gaia didn't move, only looked at him. He would be nothing to Runa without it, she meant, and didn't you say you wanted to help Runa? This is how to show. But another time, he thought, backing up; he was pathetic, he knew, going back on it, would apologise, if only not this one, and wasn't she a better match? or even Tanwen, or just to pass on by, if only Runa—

And then rotten Dyna (a mistake ever to talk!) sparked his tail, so that he jumped forward; and now he lay under Runa on the grass, she looking down at him.

"Shadow?" she said.

She hesitated; didn't want to put him on the spot but guessed his thinking. She didn't mind them battling wilders if the other wanted it, usually to Tanwen. And as she didn't laugh or say at once he was being silly, that he needn't battle, it was already done, for wasn't it always what she wanted that he did something, anything, only didn't lie about wasting apples?

"Did you change your mind, Shadow?" she said.

But what could he say to that? he thought. It was impossible to disappoint her, now that she was kneeling down, actually on one knee hovering over him, touching his middle, looking back to the others where, he felt, Tanwen had paused in coming to take the battle and now was giving a look like she wanted to destroy him, call him every name for intruding in her domain. But Gaia looked up, as if to say she knew things Runa could not, had spoken in confidence, and trilled. So he looked at her, and nodded.

"Then we're right behind you," Runa said, stroking his tail, stepping back behind him.

But it was such a miserable thing, he thought, inching forward, the Growlithe watching, to battle just because they couldn't think of better! For suppose instead he tried something else Runa liked, took an interest in her books (did she know he could read?), simply applied himself to something, anything—why battling? Looking back she smiled at him, was proud of him already, just to volunteer … she didn't know. The world's shortest battle, it would be; the first Pokémon ever to faint before a move.

He remembered this fear from the wilds, he thought, this sense of impending battery. The Growlithe's eyes seemed to turn red and a quiver went right through his length, as if his body weakened further, reverted to some natural state of jelly.

"Don't let him intimidate you!" Runa said. She was standing a mile away, he felt. "Just hold your ground!"

She never said that to the others; spent hours preparing them, giving guidance—he stuffed her plans. But focus on that, he thought, the long hours: directly to evolution and fixing everything. (Still he shook; still he trembled.) The Growlithe began to run forward, was making to bite, he knew; and now everything, he felt, flew right out of him: as if a shock went through his spine, he coiled up, couldn't command himself, failed Runa at once. That was his battling career, he thought: ten seconds. But as he heard the Growlithe's breath almost reach him, he felt the energy snap; released with a sort of discharge—there it went ahead! The Growlithe howled, jumped back; and now he saw the Growlithe's fur was sticking up in ridiculous ways, all puffed up from the discharge. He'd forgotten how the Thunder Wave felt, he thought—his first and only defence in the cave, the only aid to fleeing.

Runa said, "That's good, Shadow! Keep going!"

She was happy, actually proud of him!—but now she expected more, thought it was a special plan when really he had no intention. She wanted a powerful attack, but there was nothing behind him, never managed a twister in his life, would only look ridiculous trying if she hadn't said she wanted it. But perhaps he had grown? He unwound his tail and began to spin it, tried to build up speed … And like spinning a wet cloth, of course it failed! The grass didn't move at all. And it was trivial, ought to be accessible to any good Dratini, was the simplest thing to Gaia, and here he failed in front of Runa. The Growlithe was already charging—what could he do? He looked back to Runa. She was calling to him but he could not hear. But Runa, he thought, never actually ordered a twister.

Ah! the Growlithe bit his tail right off! Wasn't it right through, all maimed? But this was what ruined him in the wilds (Gaia started, pulled against Runa), a loss of all proportion, feeling even a simple bite so sharply that even if Runa ordered him directly he could not obey her. Now the Growlithe pulled him through across the grass away from Runa. She blamed herself: it was on her face, he saw. She didn't oppose him, and now he'd be mauled unconscious unless another saved him, too weak to defend himself.

"[Let me go!]" Gaia said; and Runa, hearing one Dratini cry, looking to the other, called out.

But battling, he thought—seeing Runa through the blades, he felt as if a part of his reason held on, buoyed, perhaps, by the diseased part of him sticking to senses—battling was not about the contest, nor to please a trainer, nor to obey. For Runa said what Tanwen called a lot of flowers: that battle was not about winning or losing, but growth, and that was all. Different bodies produced different actions, and the surplus released in battle (whether bursting in a faint or in regular practice) fed the energies of other Pokémon, and they grew; beyond a threshold, they evolved; and that was what they called experience, the increase in energies of Pokémon. All this the scientists concluded. But the growth was double, Runa said: the energies applied to body, yes, but the mind too changed with experience, and that was learning. Then even one's nature evolved—could become anything, even learn to overcome fear. And that was the better kind of growth, Runa said: that was the proper use of battling, to change mind, since after all what was a person, Runa said, but mind?

—Any Pokémon in the world can be a champion. (He had thought Runa omitted him.) It's your character that decides if you succeed, more than genes, and that's a thing you shape yourself.

Then even timid Pokémon could make a champion, those perhaps once continually terrified but who by a thousand battles' experience and however many losses succeeded to manage their fears. It didn't matter if he failed, Runa meant (had said it for him the whole time): what mattered was sticking to it, working to affect one's nature, regardless of a single battle's outcome. And what better case than when he was already bound to lose, was already resigned to the pain? Then it was only to make an effort at all.

He twisted and threw himself over the Growlithe's back and around the middle. The Growlithe let go of his tail and backed up; and paralysis setting in, perhaps, or finding his legs obstructed, the Growlithe stumbled. Not that he would actually get anywhere with a wrap; it was nothing but time; it was for Runa to see that he tried. Was that the secret of the champions? he thought, for they were all wonderfully focused: every one had a drive to do well, to make proud, something that moved and inspired them. His sickness was, if anything, a drive. He pulled his neck around the Growlithe's, covered the eyes, the ears, and now the fire Pokémon couldn't reach to bite—gummy, Gaia always called him, and it would stick now, large enough to cover everything but the legs and mouth and tail.

And it was hardly glorious, only holding on as the Growlithe snarled, pried, fell back to crush him, rolled and kicked, managed finally to stand and shake, and all the while his wrap was slipping, his whole body about to go limp from the effort of holding, he felt, sucked clean of energy. And just as he really felt his tail unwinding, as the Growlithe seemed about to crush him the last time, the legs began to shake—gave way, and fell under him.

In a moment Runa reached him; and now he was in her arms, and on her lap, and she had a potion and a revival shard in her hand.

"I knew you could do it," she said.

He could not quite see clearly: something was in his eyes: she ran her thumb under them and wiped it clean and said to relax. She held him up, kissed him on the nose, said it was brilliant and she was proud and now he could not see again. The Growlithe stirred with a potion and in a moment Tanwen was chasing it off.

"Shadow? How do you feel?" Runa said.

It seemed they were alone in the forest, lost from all roads and society. From high above a legendary bird descended and plucked him, carried him up, and let him feel the unaffected sun. And now, if it was only a matter of wild first action, if she herself touched him warmly on the neck, there seemed hardly a reason—Dyna laughed and stood beside him.

"[See? She super loves you,]" she said.

She may as well have torn his heart out to show her! He curled up; Runa said not to tease, and Dyna protested that she said nothing, that he was a hopeless gump (couldn't tell anything to humans, she argued); and Tanwen returning and brushing herself said he was absurd, that he was virtually unharmed, a waste of medicine (she would never forgive him changing his mind), and Runa guessed at that as well and now she stood up holding him. Torus could hold onto her backpack for a while, she said: now she would only carry him. Runa had her phone again in one hand, wanted to mark the place, she said, always a note of where special things occurred in her journal. "We can start training tomorrow if you like," she said—"for now, just rest. You won your first battle!"

Tanwen sniffed and said he was a worm.

"[No need to be so magnanimous,]" Gaia said. "[If anything I'm the one who'll have to split training.]" But she did not sound upset.

Tanwen was right, of course, he thought, as they continued again: they all were boiling, seeing his head against Runa, had to think it wasn't fair he got this treatment for shambling his way through a battle. Runa only smiled and held him. For she hardly minded, he knew, whether he won, but that he made a motion at all, a growth. As if atop a cliff, wrapped firmly on some rock or tree, he ventured to look over and then shot back, so it was a first step, if only he kept it, if only he could do the same again and better. For there left and right they dove off freely, Gaia into the waves, Tanwen straight into a dig in the sand, Torus teleporting directly onto the shore as psychics never feared anything. It seemed horrid now, but it was only that: just now. For Dragonair could fly, and so everything became simple, just rising up and leaving fear behind. And he could carry Runa and she would not affect him, or (as felt better) he would not lose control.

"We should still give the Ecruteak Gym a miss," Runa said, for that was the worry when they had so few battlers. "We'll come back another time. We won't miss the Kimono hall though!"

A Kimono girl, he thought: that was the last thing he needed to fix his nature. He nearly burned up at that documentary with all the dancing. But the others approved.

"Would you like that, Shadow?" Runa said.

He laid his head against her and nodded. Perhaps close to her he'd be unaffected: Runa never danced.


	4. Level 25 - Olivine (Scenes 1-3)

**Link to PDF version in profile**

Chapter split into two parts (first with scenes 1 and 3, second with scene 4) for ease of reading in a chunk

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 25**

Runa said they would reach Olivine City by noon, and already they saw the buildings and port down the valley ahead, the Magnet Line above it skirting the coast and returning inland either side. Some time on the beach, he thought; some break where Runa could be free of his burden, of carrying such a slack.

Could it have gone more horribly? It could have been a Moltres, perhaps, setting upon him, flying all the way to Hoenn to drop him into Mount Chimney, turn him to ash—it would be a mercy, rather, a benefit to Runa. Was there anything worse than that, to be an active detriment despite every effort to aid? They thought he was a waste: he lowered Runa, they had to feel, for keeping him. And nothing they said was too hard when every battle was a new exercise in fear, each in fact worse than the last, increasingly in need of rescue and a switch. Runa was above all that, of course. As he failed again to throw a twister, hardly flipped a pebble, she said not to worry, that he would improve, that he was improving. She said he grew much stronger since Ecruteak, that judging his powers he was bound to evolve (yet Gaia was still the same), that not a bit of it was for the guidance she gave but for an ability he found in himself. And Dyna screwed her face as if to say Runa was a foolish trainer! None of them saw that she was yet maturing even further toward the ideal, more and more the perfect trainer, bound to become one of the great champions. He'd been with Runa for three months already and still he grew more and more affected. She only wanted him happy and to grow, she said, as she thought was his dream.

—O, he'll make a fine Spheal, some day, Rita said.

And Runa rebuked her, guessed the meaning from so little it was alarming. Was there a human with even half her qualities? Surely nature couldn't survive with multiple Runas shaking up its order; Pokémon would be hanging off their humans wherever one looked. Not of course that they didn't show affection, that their trainers weren't fine—but they didn't imagine Runa!

It was best for Pokémon, she said, that they went at their own pace. Forcing Pokémon through drills and gyms like a factory process (she meant her sister, but didn't say), scoring them by numbers, was absolutely the farthest thing from a bond. If a trainer didn't call Pokémon people, they weren't fit to touch them—that was how Runa put it when she got excited. Pokémon were really everything to her, even though she might have been anything, done anything in the world with all her family's resources. Everything she said somehow ended up on them. A friend (she said) who imposed her dream on others was not a friend at all; a friend by definition rather helped another's. Then if her dream was to help Pokémon, they ought never to worry about hers, since her dream was fulfilled only by them acting to fill theirs. But then again—for always it reduced to this—what if one's dream was impossible? Taking her literally she said she would be fulfilled only if the rest all disappeared, if she were alone with him in her arms, laying kisses all over—lowering herself, in other words, to nothing. But then to battle was only a little better; for if, she said, it was his dream to battle (so he felt rotten again), to grow and conquer his fears, she would help in every way possible; and nodding as if that were his only purpose, wasn't he a wretch, and a liar? Only the sickness moved him; having thrown into it fully, it gorged and bloated, now it got a taste of the thing, of being held by her, being tended after a battle. He never actually feigned an injury for her attention (quite unnecessary with his weakness) but wasn't that a feeble thing to raise? He ought to keep away from her; he had to restore some sort of defence, or wouldn't evolution be for nothing? But then he would see Runa, and think of nothing but her arms and hair. If Torus did read minds, he thought, he must detect him the most corrupted thing alive.

And the scene at Route 38, he thought. He couldn't bear to think about it! It was his fault entirely—some wild notion of going off and demonstrating himself, exercising even after dark rather than sit about the camp so that returning he would eat the meal Runa made with gusto and fall right asleep, not even think of negotiating himself slowly toward her lap. For just inside the long grass there swept down the Noctowl, who, being after all many times his size and power— He wouldn't think about it. And that cry as Runa saw him carried off into the sky! all of them chasing after until he was out of sight, carried off for who knew what purpose into the forest until finally (he was pathetic) he wriggled out a Thunder Wave and the Noctowl dropped him, falling hundreds of feet into a tree where, even if he was large for a Dratini, a few boughs broke his fall. He didn't know which way was which, already past the hill; every wilder's instinct seemed forgotten, except to hide and wait, for what if he missed Runa? But in a few hours' time (it was far longer in his mind, he thought, time, they all said, being subjective) he saw a little fire, and fell to rush toward it: Tanwen, at one end of a sweeping line Runa set up to find him. —Come on, the Quilava said. For Runa was so frightened they were all too shocked to abuse him. —It's my fault, Runa said, hands all over him: —I should have seen. She forbade them to speak ill, not as an order but a rule of good behaviour everyone followed: it was horrible, she said, to abuse a victim. So they said nothing, only comments to the effect he was lucky not to hurt himself in the fall (all that padding, Rita said). Still Runa took him off battling until he was recovered, she said, and for a week hardly let him go. It's nothing, was all she said; Dratini were practically made of air; he could lay on her all he liked. And yet it was, he knew, an indelible mark on him in all the others' eyes; for Runa was perfectly fair and always treated everyone fairly, but now, they all felt, she had a favourite on whom to dote, and like a spoiled rotten rot he soaked it all up.

But Olivine City, ahead, was on the sea, and Runa said they may swim. For it was the beginning of summer, and they would be near the beaches, Runa thought, until the leaves were falling. He would swim every day: he would train and get very fit: he would build up a reserve and be good for Runa.

* * *

Runa took them to the Pokémon Centre. There was little need for it, the nurses said: they were all in fine shape, so far as injury or illness went. Again Runa had to explain her arrangement (it was shocking, said the day manager, outrageous—to pay at a Pokémon Centre!), saw they accepted her compensation for extra supplies, for didn't her family profit on the Centres somehow? This was to give back and be less of a drain. But wasn't it easier from a shop? Runa said she believed in the Pokémon Centres more than private enterprise. After that they went to the hotel overlooking the waterfront (already booked in advance for a month), left Torus behind to sleep as, Runa said, he wanted nothing, and then on the promenade they met the minders.

It was her family's condition, Runa said, that other humans entered the scene. It was possible, even likely, that after a month in Olivine someone may recognise her and, wanting something of the Pondelores, step in to impose or bother them; so they hired a couple of trainers for the summer, students in some higher education who happened to battle, who would read books on the beach but keep an eye on Runa. That was all he needed, he thought: more eyes watching. They had an Arcanine and a Blaziken both taller than Runa. And they were friends, Runa said, only to help them as they needed; but he could not let go her leg.

—I've got to go to the markets and it'll just bore you, she said. Why don't you go with Miyuki?

For they had to want to explore the big city, she said: they could keep an eye out for anything interesting, and tomorrow they'd have a day. The girl Miyuki said they would return at the waterfront at five, that she'd make sure no one bothered them (she looked at Gaia as she said it). And as she read his want, but not his reason, feeling his alarm Runa said:

—You can stay with me if you like, Shadow.

How quick they all were to leave her! Dyna wandered off at once, Tanwen following and frowning up at the big Blaziken—Gaia looked back once—and Rita, drawling after, said she wanted silks for the sand.

Runa could have suggested he go, a part of overcoming his fears—the others joked about it, how he flew into a panic if she was out of sight for any length at all, even washing herself—but the truth was she liked him near. A mother's warmth perhaps, he thought, as she lifted him up in one arm, lay him against her shirt. (The Arcanine and the boy, Stefan, followed at a distance.) He could help her decide on new clothing, she said; they would have a lot of time to swim.

But the city he began to see as Runa spotted things: the first modern city since Goldenrod, he recalled from the guide, another beat of civilisation. Along the market row, the air of cooked foods lingered around the tables they passed, caught under the umbrellas it seemed, humans and Pokémon dining, enjoying company even if not the same dishes. All the trees were in full green; there, one with flowers all short and bunched and lilac-coloured. That was the name, as Runa said: —Ah, lilac! It was growing all about but, as he had looked, still she bought a bunch to give him; he held it in his coil. It was like her hair, softly sweet. But this was his first time alone with her (the boy some way behind)—everything, he felt, was framed in terms of Runa. That tree rustled (a perfectly natural action) in a way like her hair; that shop, the scent of her poffins and Poké Puffs (spent all that effort just to feed them); a passing Pokémon, possession; a male human looking at her, piercing dread. Runa said they had better go indoors, to get out of the heat; she meant his skin, never shedding properly. It was better not to be around so many people, he thought, all free to look … yet none of them knew her … he had all her attention, so why did he have to worry, tense against her? It's all right, she said, checking the map on her phone: they were nearly off the street, what had filled with humans disgorging out of Olivine Station Tower, just arrived from half an hour's travel on the Magnet Train from Goldenrod.

This was a store for clothing, a boutique, she said, laying him on a white sofa. He could help, she said, and give his opinion on something to wear for the beach. So she looked and chose something. And what good, he thought, was a wretch like him to her at all? so sick he could not look at her in a parted outfit, purely practical for humans in the water, without thinking of all the skin under the shirt he'd pressed against; quite as smooth as a Dratini's, never lost a bit to peeling; quite as soft; not as tall as he was long but enough to curl up on and fit his nose below her chin. He blushed; he turned away. She said it was perhaps too open, would look for one in one piece. In any case all four limbs would be bare, and floating in the water she might hold him with every—no! He pressed his face into the corner. He was losing his mind. For didn't he imagine her now laying on the beach and he above her, both hands on his neck, and not a bit of skin removed from hers? Were there any psychics about, the minder's, perhaps, who saw? Perhaps if he thought wrongly it became their duty to interrupt and save her, tear him away. —What do you think? she said. A shirt and shorts—yes, he nodded. She ought to choose what she liked and hang him, but so long as she asked … She picked him up and held him at the mirror, as if to see how they looked together, as if she chose it to match. He shouldn't blush to see himself, she said; he was perfectly healthy and adorable. How quickly she would fling him away in disgust if she knew! The cashier lady would cry out for help, getting in between them (she smiled as Runa paid; a rich girl, she must think, and her spoiled Dratini, not a battler, summer weeks on holiday)—the Arcanine crushing him on the ground until Runa tore out the hidden ball and called a Jenny. All it took was one touch, something unmistakable (he watched her mouth as she spoke), and it would all end at once, as was bound to happen eventually. For however much people looked pleasant now, he thought, as Runa put the bag around her shoulder and took him in both arms again, all these affectations, he knew if they ever found out all these people would at once turn and destroy him, their Pokémon helping. Just as behind bright streets and corners there were people living roughly, and under the pretty forests and lakes Pokémon scrapped for food and shelter, so too in society itself there were recesses, unspoken-of strictures, which if broken made one an enemy to every right-thinking human and her Pokémon at once, not for the breach itself—to kiss a human—but for the lost impression, that for a Pokémon to curl up in his human's arms was no longer innocent but perhaps a sign of something. This was a change unbearable, they all felt, or wouldn't everyone in the world have to worry and check themselves? But as Runa recalled a song, something from the Kimono dance chorus, and (his head against her, feeling it through him) breaking from a steady hum she sang,

Legends born eternally,

Nature never changing—

suppose, he thought, he never changed? For so long as he trained he would grow and perhaps evolve, but evolution did not change everything (which would be horrible in itself, not the same person). One's character may change—a Charizard, say, once a sweet Charmander, turned rough and hard because of all the strength—but that wasn't necessary, really more the exception than the regular case. Could such sickness really grow with evolution? Surely if that happened there would be a sign, if there were others like him: large Pokémon ravishing their trainers left and right, on all the papers and screens. Was that proof it didn't get stronger? Perhaps it only proved he was alone; certainly it wasn't a natural thing, to feel this way for the other kind. There were legends—that was where he got it from, the tone of the report—old myths of Pokémon appearing as human, and somehow even breeding. How did it work? Suppose he slept beside Runa, some warm gesture on her part, and in the morning there was an egg—some sort of abomination, Runa asking how it was possible, how it worked without a special bond, finding everything out. But that was impossible; and, they were legends, nothing to do with the city and the beach. So he felt the sea air; the lilac; the warmth of her skin up his side. There was no risk of that, he thought, was there?

Runa said they might sit until it was time (hours already with her!), and they went into a little restaurant, found a booth with a window overlooking the waterfront across the cobbled square—still a few people, though not quite the crush of summer, not even like Ecruteak when the trees were all pink and they were only getting ready for the carnival. Runa ordered fruit and shakes, and they arrived on two little dishes: slices of apple and mango, a nest of berries, a whole pitaya.

"It's also called a dragon fruit," she said, and smiled. He would like it, she said—sweet but very mild, very healthy.

There was something in the peeling of a pitaya, how she made a little space and then, like that, the whole skin popped off, that filled him with a sense of peace, a cosiness, as though an old sticky layer had shed. This was enough, he thought; if all the rest came to nothing, if he never grew closer, this was enough with Runa. She liked his company; hadn't said a word about battling; only cared that he was happy, the sort of simple thing that stress of training, if anything, disrupted. Probably to enter battling at all wasn't necessary, Runa being warm even to Rita who did nothing. A conversation was enough, even if he could not speak, just to see her talk, look at him, smile because he listened.

"I'm sorry if buying things was dull," she said.

It was an odd thing, this need to put on clothing—humans having less in the way of warmth and resistance than Pokémon, for whatever reason evolved, they said, unable to bear natural temperatures. (Gaia always said he was unusual, hardly felt cold or heat at all, except, he thought, in connection with Runa.) And so, as humans did, they made an asset of it; took action, took to engineering their world in a way no other species did to accommodate. There wasn't a species more adaptive in the world; Pokémon were clever, yes, might have arms and cleverness fit to change the world around them, yet in all the thousands of years they hadn't put together a civilisation, as humans had: a human in a crowd of wilders, he thought, was its rightest head. Of course the others never understood, as he tried to explain it, how marvellous they were—thought it was only a bright trainer he wanted, said, when he kept stressing it (not as self-understanding then, not as practised), that he was odd, a wilder enamoured by civilisation. So he was: he loved all the human works, the music, the clothing too, the dance—like a Dragonair's motion, he reasoned—the capacity of all to stand up and decide their fate. A wilder only adhered to the wilds, and so amounted to little; a battler only drove up a ladder; whereas humans produced works so great that whole worlds popped up inside them and—like that—another world for Pokémon, the battling industry, was born, a little part of theirs.

"Manda will probably make champion this year," Runa said. Of course that was easy, he thought, with such advantages: the heir, older than Runa by six years, no hesitations at all in using Pokémon. "Remember the Indigo Plateau Conference opens today. That's probably why it's so quiet—there's no screen here."

Nor in the hotel room, he thought. Why weren't they watching themselves, all laid around her to study the battles, support her sister?

Runa stirred the little black pitaya seeds in her juice, but didn't drink it. "I don't like the tournaments," she said. "I mean, a friendly contest is fine. But these days you don't reach the top unless you're all about winning and hard drills—like my sister. There's, um … there's a word they use for certain styles of training. Pondelorian." She looked at him. "It means a mathematical approach, where you spend a lot of money and do a lot of repetitive training to get the best possible performances from Pokémon. Friendship and happiness being secondary."

It was personal to her, he thought, that she had to share the name, none of her family caring, perhaps, for Pokémon as much as she did. But what she said was the case a long time, wasn't it? The show talked about the champion Red as the last of an era, and Red was—how old?—at least forty, and quit the title when he was younger than Runa.

"Of course, her Pokémon turned out fine!" she said. She put her hand on the table. "Some day you'll meet them and make friends. I hope they win … Maybe we'll watch the finals. They've been grinding so long everyone says she can't lose against Lance. I just don't like people building up the contest and forgetting what battling's about—growing Pokémon. Manda never got that."

Not that blood ought to matter, he thought, but it was odd that, for all the warmth Runa gave Pokémon, she kept it from her own human family. With Pokémon of similar types, two Dratini say, one couldn't deny there was a shared understanding, one not only for the Corner, that made them rather closer—oughtn't it be so for humans growing up together? But her people, Runa would say, being so rich, were not like other humans and didn't understand. They treated Pokémon as a resource, cared for yet kept apart; bred them scientifically; valued them for things like shininess when in uniquity and worth (how he fluttered as she said it!) he was no different from Gaia.

"I'm sorry," she said—"I shouldn't say bad things about family. I mean, we do communicate. They pay for everything—we couldn't travel like this on just the trainer's stipend. But—" There was a drop of juice running down his neck, and she reached over with a tissue. "I mean, this is nice, relaxing a bit after travelling like other trainers, but they're used to a totally different lifestyle. Maybe Tanwen's told you about it … what she saw wasn't the same, though, in the nurseries. You could visit, but … I mean it's not the sort of place a Pokémon can grow up properly. But, if you really wanted it …"

And as she looked down and held her shake, did she think—? Or was she asking if he would leave her then, only break off and live in comfort free of fear, done with battling? As if he would abandon Runa just to lay out on a pillow watching a screen, to take up another cage! He laid his head on the table.

She smiled and said, "Oh, I didn't mean you, Shadow," and taking the straw she held the tip so that the mango and pitaya crush stayed in and held it out for him to lick. (She would not even clean it after: that was Runa with Pokémon.) Rita, she meant, would flee given half a better shot at luxury—or was that true? There were times Tanwen looked at her she seemed to frown, that he saw her watch a battle and tread. Once she asked him how he found it, to battle the first time; turned it into a barb right after, as she did, an O, perhaps it's not for you, but still there was the question. Was she beginning to think more of Runa? Time would see what happened with her, Gaia said, but already she was two months with them without offering a use—that at least Tanwen allowed him now. There hadn't yet been another Pokémon who approached Runa and became the team's sixth; it was only fit, then, if it was Rita all along.

"Things don't usually change without an outside force," she said, stirring the seeds until they twirled. "If you spend too much time without pressure … you might stop pushing back. And that's a waste of a life, don't you think, when it goes on for years and years? Back home, Pokémon don't have a chance to be themselves—I mean, all society says it's not up to them to have a choice. But most people don't grow up well unless someone guides them. They never try to change their nature because they don't know it's possible. No, you're lucky, Shadow,"—she moved the berry dish closer and smiled—"you already know that!"

And like some rot who didn't even hear her words, wasn't affected at all, he could only pick out another pecha berry and chew. If Runa had one flaw, it was that her quality blinded her to others, whom she assumed to be like her; fundamentally capable of similar understanding; able to observe their own character which, being only a simple portrait of connections and contingent qualities (so she described the game of Voltorb Flip, just arithmetic and logic and probabilities), may be redesigned at will. Was that genius? he thought. He was no longer certain. Anyone can grow, she said; anyone can improve. (But one was born with a thing like genius, surely—one didn't grow into that!) But if as she said nature changed, nothing yet was certain: he may yet gain a power, not flush every time she looked at him, not feel his flares and skin grow hot. Oh, he thought, let it be as simple as that—let it be a thing that just washed away! (Evolution was the key.) The sickness needn't even go, not entirely, so long as he could make it harmless. And then there would be nothing to spoil it, with Runa in the sea, swimming right beside her as she—

"I'm sorry," Runa said, standing and starting for the door: outside Rita ran by with a silk scarf in her mouth, then a young trainer and his Eevee chasing after, and then the girl minder and the boy and the Arcanine.

* * *

At the waterfront, Rita laying on her new Leavanny silk cloth (it was beneath the minders to go and fetch it, but so they offered), Gaia basking, Tanwen sitting as to seem the only one attentive, Dyna building sand over Torus—only he, he thought, thought at all about Runa, there buying iced tea from a stall. A few children looked, pointed to Gaia: a pink Dratini on the beach! they would say. (They scattered when the Arcanine sniffed.)

Dyna looked at him approaching. "[I found a shop that sells Everstones,]" she said, itching her wool—the sand was all inside it, he saw, but she seemed not to notice. "[I'm gonna ask Runa for one.]"

He said, "[Don't you want to evolve?]"

She harrumphed and placed a shell on Torus's nose, who was very still. "[It's for Rita,]" she said, looking to see she didn't hear. "[She's desperate to evolve into a beautiful Ninetales, you know? But I'm thinking if she makes Runa get her a big bow or something, I'll stick it inside.]"

That was rather harsh, he thought, just because Rita debated her. But what was it he had heard about the stones? There was a documentary series with, yes, Steven Stone, the one Runa mentioned in the Corner. She knew him personally, saw his family's whole collection of stones on a visit, perhaps, old friends of the Pondelores. "[Don't Vulpix need a Fire Stone to evolve?]" he said.

Dyna put another shell on Torus. "[So?]" she said.

"[But—]" he said. "[But Everstones don't affect evolutionary stones.]"

Dyna paused, seemed to think it over—and then Torus teleported away, and the sand and shells fell into a heap.

"_Flaaf!_" she said, and turned to him. "[Do they work on Dratini?]" she said.

"[Y— Yes,]" he said.

And she said, "[Maybe I'll stick it in a Poké Puff, you know, the kind you snarf whole? Stop you getting bigger. You'll thank me.]"

They were all cross with him, he knew, thought he was a waste to the team, slowed them down, took away Runa's attention. What if he never evolved, never became strong enough? and being far too great a liability as they battled more and more difficult trainers, as permitting a Dratini to stay became impossible, Runa would lay a hand on him and, For the sake of the others, she would say, so as not to disrupt their dreams—

Now Runa was returning with a jug; and as though he hadn't just spent hours alone with her, he rushed toward her (quite beyond all shame now). She asked what it was, wiped his eyes (he was absurd), asked who had teased him; then Dyna threw her shell and called him a snitch, and his denial Runa only took as making it worse, and now she looked at Dyna. So he spoiled things; so he bust up the team again, he thought. But Runa always said just the right thing—How would you feel if you were nearly carried off and your own family only made fun?—and Dyna, though accusing her was really unjust, though Runa didn't know what was said, only folded her arms and took a strong interest in the sand.

Once everyone had a drink from the pitcher Runa said they ought to decide on the gym.

"We don't have to," she said—"it's only for motivation. This is the Kanto break so the gym is nearly empty, and we'll get plenty of practice in any case. But if we're feeling ready, in a couple weeks we can try for the badge."

Tanwen looked at each of them consequentially, took another share from the pitcher: it was for her that Runa even considered it, thought of committing them to serious battles that to her were only more experience and growth but to Tanwen were the whole point of it. In a Steel-type gym she would shine glorious, make her mark, she said; and wasn't it both fair and far past time they got a badge, she being with Runa for eleven months already and accomplishing nothing but to bloat the team? But water was just as well, Runa said, against the Steelix, bred from the old leader Jasmine's—Gaia would be centre as well.

Tanwen looked at him. "[Be nice if we had another water user,]" she said. He turned pink, looked away. But that was the trouble: they needed three for the leader match, according to the conditions.

"[It's not his fault,]" Gaia said. "[We've hardly seen water for over a year.]"

"[Water's everywhere. You're water-egg types. It should be easy,]" Tanwen said.

"[You don't know anything about controlling water,]" Gaia said.

But Tanwen was correct: Dratini ought to have a grip on water right from the egg, or wasn't that a dragon's strength, a grasp of many elements? And yet while Gaia could throw up a surf now whenever she liked, drew it right through the ground and rock, he could not turn over a cup.

"I think any of you could evolve soon," Runa said, "but there's no need to rush it. We'll only go if there's enough who feel ready."

Rita looked at him. That was all: she looked, then away. So why, he thought, did he feel so thoroughly rotten? It was the team, the those who feel ready, meaning those who could actually battle; and there were only two she could rely on for that. Any other team (and she already cared for six Pokémon!) would have a surplus of choice; yet here Runa had to work it out, as with Dyna (helpless against the Steelix), Rita (no help at all), Torus (no help against anything serious) all excluded, where did that put Runa? But there was more to it, this feeling. It was what Rita said before, on the way to Olivine. Runa had mentioned the gym and Tanwen was adamant they battled, despite the team's weakness, and Runa was saying they ought not to rush, that their growth was what mattered, and after a minute Rita turned to him.

—Do many Pokémon get this?

—Get what?

—This. Runa's way.

—It's wonderful, isn't it? Runa's the best!"

—O, a wonder, yes. Because when you can afford the finest vitamins and minerals any science can produce, whole herds of Blissey for breakfast eggs and teams of chefs to prepare them, even to buy a gym outright and not just own its badge but lead it too—with all that, the best you can do is to beg your Pokémon, if it wasn't an imposition, if it only pleased her, whether she might consider growing up a bit before a Steelix blasts her all the way to groundwater.

Whether her view was secretly changing, whether it was all a bluster or not, Rita was horrible to Runa and didn't deserve her. And he argued, said Runa only cared more than any human, and didn't force; and Rita had looked across her nose and said, if Runa only wanted a Dratini-shaped doll who trilled when she pressed him, she might have gone to the Super Mart.

"We can't battle without three," Runa said. For with only two of five battlers wanting it, that was not a consensus, but with three, Runa would follow their want in it.

But—and Gaia said always to ignore Rita—but was this really how it ought to be, a trainer negotiating with her Pokémon? For if Runa was the wisest (and didn't she train them?) it was right that she decided. Humans appointed leaders precisely to avoid this sort of debate; parents, if she saw herself as one, reasoned with their young but in the end their word was final. And none of them spoke, as she looked to each of them—skipped him over. He looked away—and with all the others saying nothing, looking between each other … But this was intolerable, he thought, everyone feeling it, what they did to Runa, drove her to doubt or to force them, for didn't others only obey everything their trainer said and yet they were happy and grew? He had to do it, he thought—volunteer. The assembly of every apparent circumstance in three months built to this instant, demanding he offer for Runa. But what would they say?

It's not a good idea before you've learned water, seriously.

You'd be pulverised. We don't need you wrecking our battle. Leave it to fire.

O, you'll give the girls a nice breather, I'm sure, that whole second.

Dyna raised her hand and looked at Tanwen, as if to say, Now shush up.

Chance again missed him: he let it pass. He would never be a great battler to Runa; would never rise at all in her reckoning, just the one who nearly lost himself in the woods from his own stupidity, for even Dyna who didn't care at all was more willing to put herself on the spot. And once Torus evolved, he would be firmly in fifth, and with Rita discounted, still last of all.

He lay out on the sand in Runa's shadow: so he would always be. And did Torus look—? But he was only meditating.

* * *

Chapter continues in next part


	5. Level 25 - Olivine (Scene 4)

**Link to PDF version and other sources in my profile**  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter continues from previous part (Level 25, Scenes 1-3)

* * *

Manda Pondelore—that was the name on every screen now, the championship match arrived. Lance the Dragon Master said he would retire if he lost, step aside for the new generation. And he was not very old—only fifty-five, still an auspicious age for a human—and his Dragonite, the number one in the world (according to the rankings) was only young, had more than two centuries of life before him. What would he do when Lance was gone? What, he thought, did any Pokémon do when their human left them? (But he shouldn't think about it; and Runa was very young and healthy.)

At any rate Lance's legacy was certain: even without his later resurgence he would have remained a champion emeritus, occupied some wing in Indigo Plateau where he would find a role presumably, teach students until he was very wise, an immortal part in the history of battling and championships. Yes, certainly he had that … but today Manda was the word on everyone's lips, the rising star. Now that he paid especially close attention, she looked taller than Runa; had shorter, straighter hair; didn't look to her Pokémon when she talked, her Charizard standing very sternly behind, one of the top percent.

—You'd like him. (Runa couldn't keep from smiling.) The screen doesn't do him justice.

They used to play in Hoenn, she said. Runa had a whole history she hardly talked about, all these other Pokémon she knew who saw her growing up. Compared to those, even Tanwen hardly knew her.

The reports said Manda was a hard and disciplined trainer: the perfect pondelorian. What a terrible use for a name! he thought, to end up meaning hard and lacking sympathy. Runa hated it, of course, one of the barriers between her and her family; and possibly, he thought, for such enormous things had to have causes, possibly that was the start of her philosophy, as if she said to her family, If you were only warmer to Pokemon, this wouldn't be necessary—but as you aren't, watch this. That was why, even though it made Tanwen furious, even though it may weaken the team, in the opposite to pondelorian efficiency Runa insisted she'd keep training him just the same, even after Dyna volunteered.

—We'll train as if you were going to fight, even though you aren't. After all, what's the point of a gym if it only gets in the way of growing?

Selfish as it was, wretched and full of sickness as it showed him, he took everything she offered. So they each had six hours daily, three at a time with Tanwen and Gaia piling on extra, but not so much as Runa, who spent ten hours a day guiding them. But add to that her extra burdens, fetching meals and medicines and so on, things Manda had crews to worry over, and wasn't her entire waking life spent on them? And they only worked six! Tanwen said that real battlers trained twice that, Manda's Pokémon doing upwards of twelve every day. —Why can't we train without her? Tanwen said. Isn't that the point, that we act independent? So she drilled on the beach, ran back and forth and performed all sorts of exercises to assert herself, look the hardest in front of everyone.

As for him, he would be nowhere without Runa: she developed a special plan for him that, Dyna said, looked more like play than a regimen, full of swimming and stretches, some strength training but, with so many breaks (it didn't have to be a chore, Runa said, it being not the end that mattered but the process), it was hardly more active than a cave Dratini's regular day, in some underground lake, or Gaia's sort of daily fare, climbing up some river for . For two weeks he did everything Runa set and again more on the beaches, following Tanwen's example, shed more skin than he could look at, more sweat than ever—and if he was ever going to become a good Dratini, he thought, a slim and proportionate one like Gaia, it would be after that; yet he only lost a fraction of a pound. What sort of biology created a thing like that, a body and mind so joined to sickness? One fit to lie on a couch in some Hoenn estate, and be a pillow for a true battling Pokémon, one of Manda's. And, he knew it would be only temporary, like those humans who brawled with Machoke to prepare for a competition but swelled up again in the off season. Yet Runa said he improved wonderfully; looked thinner and darker, not so cave-pale; was faster, by the clocks. Speed was his strength, she said (the only benefit of his timidity): he was always quick for his length, faster than Gaia would have been, if she hadn't much more experience. So Gaia told him; Dyna looked on dubiously.

—So are you like getting fit?

—I … I beat my lap record, Runa says.

—Good, good. So if I got the Pokérus or something and ended up in the Poké Centre, we're okay, right?

Dyna regretted her decision; hadn't figured, she said, that the Steelix was immune to everything she had. Did she want him to step in and replace her? She never said. At any rate Tanwen and Gaia had a strong chance to win it without her; Tanwen worked on her Flame Wheel, and Gaia mastered the drawing of groundwater through fissures in rock, as every water-type Pokémon did, so that the resident Diglett and Graveler had to rebuild the floor daily. And though after all their effort no one had evolved, still between them was defeated every irregular trainer in the gym, and all that remained was Forsyth, the old leader Jasmine's son and successor.

Now Runa (he looked up at her) was beginning to get attention. It wasn't just that her sister won the final and, if she won the title match in just a few hours, would become the champion of all Johto and Kanto—that was a part of it, of course, but now that they seriously applied to recorded training, Runa was gaining interest for her own abilities. Her style of letting them act independently astonished other humans in a way he never saw on the screens. The few times they battled other trainers on the routes no one really minded, rather were curious and asked about it; here, in the gym, multiple trainers objected to a loss, said she broke the rules or some made-up nonsense. But there was no rule, Runa said, against a Pokémon acting without command from a trainer. There was a flinch statistic, something on Runa's record, which after a few battles some referred-to authority decided to set as ones and not zeroes for each non-volitional command, they called it, or it would be all zeroes forever. Some accused her, said that having them all out of balls was irresponsible—not locking up her Pokémon!—for suppose a rock or surf fell over them? Runa only said it broke the rules to harm a trainer, and wasn't she also standing behind? What about a poison, carrying on after a swap? But there were salves for that, she said, to hold a condition without ending it. And what was this about not liking her giving them medicine, as if they couldn't afford it? That everyone called patronising. But it was for their Pokémon, not them, so they weren't left faint for however long because their humans were stingy or talking. No, as Tanwen said,

—They're just sore we show them up as wanting.

For most Pokémon couldn't act without an order, only seized up and looked at their trainer; whereas Runa taught them not to think of her at all. It was critical, she said, they trusted their own judgement, as that was key to growth. So they studied type advantages and tactics; when to strike; when to build reserves; when, for the sake of another on the team, to retreat, and when in the hardest circumstance (absolutely the last case, she said) to go all-out in a blaze to save the others. And the last should never happen; it was her failure if it did, she said; it would be better to forfeit the match and she suffer the penalty than compound a pain to Pokémon. It was difficult to follow her method, yes; but for trainers, he saw, it was terrifying. Without a need to wait on her they could outpace a technically faster Pokémon, or launch a surprise attack at the last moment, impossible to deflect. (Then perhaps she was a genius, he thought, looking up.) For even Rita had to admit her quality, that Runa invented a whole new style, a new thing to call pondelorian: in all the years of batting it hadn't been done, and it all followed from her saying that Pokémon were people. And her family favoured Manda!

—I know they support us too. (She was careful what she said about them after the café, as if the minders may report.) They're just following tradition.

Whatever they thought, a gym leader knew better. It was a leader's job to guide trainers, not to run after titles; to them Runa's method was surely a sign of things to come. So the leader Forsyth, rather the same height as Runa, not in fact much older but, presumably, raised to share in his mother's experience, invited Runa to the gym even before knowing they meant to battle. He'd heard she was in the city, he said. He liked that her Pokémon were not in balls. (And did Runa still have them? Were they technically hers, in human law, or would anything trap them? There was a little parcel he saw once at the bottom of her bag, bound in black tape, which seemed somehow terrifying—as if dropping that he would vanish.) It's an honour, said Forsyth, any time a trainer's first badge is won at Olivine; especially one likely to go as far as her, he said.

So here they were: Olivine City Gym; and from his place behind Runa, he was on the verge, he felt, of being sick. Why didn't he volunteer? he said. Not that Runa thought he didn't care, but he might have shown it, demonstrated, and she'd feel it, he knew, very warmly. He could have been a part in winning Runa's first badge … and too yet he had a hundred chances to recant since, offer to replace Dyna, and he did not. So the Flaaffy said a Steelix was nothing serious but, he knew, was terrified. Yet with him the battle was as good as lost, the powers escaping him, unable in the sea to produce more than a ripple, and who was he to spoil Runa's history?

The floodlights went up over the boulders and stone arena, and now, at the cusp of all the others going into battle, Runa put her hand behind her for him to touch. For that was Runa, he thought: if he really did battle, and fainted and lost it for them, she would only pick him up and say it didn't matter; and that was intolerable.

"Good luck, Tanwen!" Runa said. The siren went: the battle began: Tanwen leaped forward.

Forsyth said, "Magnemite, go!"

In a forced disadvantage—so Runa told them to beware—if a trainer favouring a certain type faced a Pokémon strong against it, the more calculating ones often responded by sacrificing one to cripple her with some debilitating condition. Tanwen sprinted on all fours—just one hit, he thought, a flame wheel or—oh! a Thunder Wave, Forsyth commanded. The Magnemite's one eye closed and its whole body glowed with energy. And Tanwen was ruined if it landed, the whole strategy sunk! It was to speed alone, whoever landed first. And speed was never Tanwen's strength, nor Gaia; and was it possible she missed, and both were paralysed, all gone at once?

But now a trail of flame followed Tanwen's feet, and she jumped and, spinning in the air, a lick of flame shot out toward the Magnemite. And there it landed: with a blast of smoke and a screech, it pinged off the ground, and landed again, its one eye spinning in a spiral, out of the battle at once.

Runa said, "Good job, Tanwen!" though she wasn't, he saw, looking at the Magnemite.

This was the sort of thing (and Tanwen would call him pathetic, a waste of effort) that ruined battling for him: whatever joy it was to win a battle, wasn't the other's pain, both to faint and to lose, much greater? What did the others say to the poor Magnemite, clearly new to the team, probably desperate to prove itself and now, knocked out at once? No one ever thought about the fainted Pokémon, beaten unconscious in their balls; yet they never quit praising the spirit of one who raged out of control, frenzied to the point of confusion. But he must, he thought, be happy for Runa. Tanwen had avoided the paralysis and put them one ahead at once, when he would have only flung himself at it and missed repeatedly, some horrible protracted thing that made Runa look like a child.

Forsyth said something to the Magnemite's ball, that he was sorry, perhaps, before taking the next. His manner changed in battle; he wasn't at all smiling now. He held the next ball ready and said, "Your Quilava's powerful. Let's see how she does against a different kind of steel!"

The gym filled up with red light, all the way to the ceiling, he imagined, and—oh, but it wasn't right, he thought, such a difference in powers! The Steelix straightened up, leering over Tanwen, larger even than Runa suggested, indicating by a street lamp (some word came to mind he didn't recall)—surely it was really Jasmine's old veteran? And did Tanwen shiver? Certainly Dyna bit her finger. Was it very rotten, now, to be glad he wasn't battling?

But fearlessly, madly he thought, Tanwen rushed forward, seemed to be blowing steam from her nose. And this (it must be said) was a problem with Runa's method: give a rash or hot-headed Pokémon full liberty, one whose pride took over, and she was liable to fly off in battle and act her nature. Five days ago she lost a spar to Gaia and, when Runa stepped out, she lost her head. —I should've been a Typhlosion months ago, she said; you're all wet next to me. (And Dyna told her to take a swim and feel better; but if not for him, she'd be quite evolved.)

Forsyth said, "Rock Tomb!"

The Steelix turned, and speared his tail into the ground, the lurch passing all the way through the arena—now several boulders burst through the ground, all around Tanwen. They were going to close in and crush her!—but some gap she found, and shot out, landing on fours again. One had to have struck her—could she still use the fire?—she seemed to favour one side, but not enough to stop her leaping onto the boulder, and there was the flame, from her mouth this time. And the Steelix turned, used the last of his motion to pull the boulders down, break them all to pebbles beneath her, but she already jumped and, there, let go the ember—struck the Steelix in the middle. But how, he thought, flattening his flares, how were some species built in such a way without going crazy? for the Steelix produced such a screeching noise, turned his own metal parts as if to grind up Tanwen who landed on him, and turning he launched her—threw her farther than she expected, right through the air, and—oh! she landed roughly on the stone, half the floor away.

Dyna grabbed him, said she couldn't watch but continued—if not in the fall then the boulder, what she seemed to shrug off, must have been worse than it looked, for now Tanwen was sluggish. But if Tanwen didn't strike first (for the Steelix still looked healthy), if Gaia hadn't enough advantage (a Dratini, next to that!)—

Forsyth said, "Rock Throw!"

But that wasn't a certain move, he thought. It was down to the Steelix's judgement, guessing where she went. The giant Pokémon punched the ground several times with his tail (menacing, was the word), broke up stones to throw. Yet for all her difficulty, Tanwen was really exceptional: a product of centuries' breeding at the Hoenn estate, yes, but close to a year in training as well, the most driven of all of them—breeding didn't guarantee that. No, it was speed, rushing behind cover, the Steelix watching and tracking her, that was always her weakness, and now she was injured on top. So her judgement must make it up, what Runa`s method allowed them; and turning at the base of a boulder, changing her course so that even from his clear vantage he couldn't see where she was headed, and now she started up the fire—darted up the side, leapt toward the Steelix and—

But that was impossible; it was cheating. Steelix were over a thousand pounds, thirty feet long or more, yet here he spun in one second, flung a stone with his tail and seemed to pluck Tanwen right from the air—her breath a little spout of flame behind her, falling right across the arena into the floor.

He couldn't look—there was an awful crack, the rock shattering to pieces surely. It wasn't possible Tan survived: just now he heard her die directly. But Runa moved, ran toward her; and there he saw Tanwen shuddering in a heap of pebbles and, trying once to stand, falling faint.

Of course what energies filled Pokémon didn't allow one to die from simple rock—not like humans, Runa standing near, always the fear of that—but pain, surely, was no more muted. To think some humans, some Pokémon even thought it fond to battle like this! Runa crouched over Tanwen and applied the revival fragment, the bit of energy. This what what she feared all the time, why she avoided the gyms; hated battles just the same as him but Tanwen didn't understand, only wanted titles like Runa's sister, something famous and demonstrative of power. And becoming a champion necessarily involved a thousand broken and battered Pokémon behind you—and this, he thought, was considered a pride-worthy thing!

"You did brilliantly, Tan," she said.

Tanwen looked away. It was rotten to be mean in thinking, he thought, when she was the one suffering, but Tanwen wouldn't grow from any of it. Tomorrow she would say circumstance was against her, that the floor was badly laid, too many well-formed boulders inside it; only her second faint ever; didn't mean anything. But if Gaia failed it would be bad character.

Runa looked at Gaia; Dyna itched herself all over. If Gaia failed to finish the Steelix, entirely immune to electricity … It was pointless and horrible, just throwing them out to faint, Runa would say.

She put her hand on Gaia, and said, "It's your decision."

Gaia nodded; didn't seem to see Runa's own doubt. She was in the Olivine papers a couple days ago: a remarkably rare dragon, they called her. (Later the copy went up in flames; —Oh, what a sunny day, Tanwen said, still brooding over the spar.) She was the best argument against his burdening Runa, that she already had such a better Dratini. But she would finish the battle, yes; she would knock out the Steelix in a single move.

On the ground she looked down; with her instruction he could lightly feel it now as well, the waters far below. And Gaia was so practised now she took only moments to force it up, to fissure the rock: she began to sway, to pull the water.

Forsyth said, "Steelix, Sandstorm!"

At once the Steelix whipped the nearest boulder, pulverised it into dust, and with a great bellow drew it all up, swirling over the arena floor. But Runa warned about this sort of tactic: the son of Jasmine meant to slow the water itself, all this clever experience his mother taught him, make it impossible for Gaia to lift.

From the fissures water produced in jets, and—oh! Gaia leapt into one, and what was she thinking?—carried away up in an arc, up to the top of the arena, as if she flew! She turned toward the Steelix. But now she was shielded from the grit and sand. Only a clever Pokémon could think of it, knowing how it felt to be in water, controlling it; only Runa's method allowed that.

The water was absorbing the sandstorm, and now it turned filthy, seemed more viscous and congealed. Could Gaia see with such grit in her eyes? might it, in fact, fall down around her, too heavy to hold a boulder's worth on top? But she only had to turn downward to land a terrific blow—

Forsyth said, "Steelix, use Dragon Breath!"

Oh! he thought—that was that they hoped he'd never call. A better dragon than himself, the Steelix was, if he could do that; the beam would shred the water apart, ruin the whole attack!

But now the water came tumbling down toward its target, Gaia directing it. The Steelix's mouth filled with a sort of yellow smoke, about to burn her, about to punch the water apart and ruin—oh! the water split in two arcs, and there was Gaia in the air! But she exposed herself directly, let the water carry ahead and pulled it either way, saved it from the Dragon Breath. The Steelix let it out, a jet of yellow smoke—the water curled in and clapped either side the face, knocked the Steelix right back and cut the beam off directly, a perfect hit!—but where was Gaia? But what breath the Steelix got out struck her squarely: that was her tumbling away inside the smoke like a Weedle, all her skin burning off, he felt. She smacked flat into the rock; fainted, he knew, at once; and there the Steelix was still up, grinding and shaking off water—still in, and Gaia fainted in the most horrible way, her first faint, her record ruined.

But Gaia had not fainted. She hardly moved, but she survived that—bowled right across the arena and she was still conscious! But now the paralysis had set, it seemed: she shuddered, looked up at Runa.

Looking across the arena, Runa said, "I'm withdrawing!"

Forsyth nodded, and though, he thought, he didn't need to, the Steelix returned in a red flash.

Dyna grabbed him and said, "[But she's fine!]" Didn't she think that was rotten? He moved to get free but she clung. "[She could still do it, you know?]"

How it all went foul! he thought. Months already, far longer than most before a gym, and now it was failing? How did it look for Runa? But Runa only smiled sadly and seemed to become very tired. "It's okay," she said, touching Dyna's wool. "You don't have to."

For, he thought, that was Runa. It was breaking rules to quit a ranked match, a gym leader battle no less; didn't matter on the routes but here the numbers were everything. It was not the end of a trainer's career (the commentators mentioned some who did it and became successful) but it was a black mark, set one down as lacking something. But would Runa stain her reputation, break the rules and quit just to stop a faint if it looked certain? Of course she would. And Dyna would accept; then Tanwen would burst into fire and destroy the team, for destroying her by connection and ruining her dream; and so Runa, though she only wanted to protect them, though it was not her fault, would break her own philosophy, and only felt she must because she was blinded by a noble warmth for Pokémon, the sort that saw value in a wretched one like him.

It was spontaneous; for a moment he lost his senses. He leaped across the arena line.

Gaia said, "[What are you doing, you gump?]"

But this was real feeling, he thought, not that sickness or breeders' warmth, but one quite worthy of Runa. Of course he'd faint; of course he'd fail to get in one move: it didn't matter. Runa would have to pick him up and tend him and—so it was—he thought not a bit about it, only the thing itself, to put himself out for Runa.

"[Y— Yeah!]" Dyna said.

Runa didn't say anything; only looked as if to stop him, but wasn't sure it was the thing. But didn't she see it was better? He was never going to make a strong battler anyway; had by far the least potential of anyone; to spend himself weakening others for the team was his best use. Runa looked nearly frightened. Was it that she really thought herself a guardian, and must spare them every foreseeable harm? But to faint in battle, helping her … that was what all other Pokémon were willing to do, wasn't it? That was proving he grew; it was exactly what Runa wanted all this time, and everything she deserved. So he trilled and looked forward.

Calling across the arena, Forsyth said, "Is this your third Pokémon?"

Runa said, "He … If he wants to be."

Well, he thought, Dyna perhaps would say something warm to the effect later. Forsyth threw a ball and said, "All right … Scizor, it's up to you! Quick Attack!"

"Don't forget your strengths!" Runa said.

If only he had a grip on fire! he thought. The Scizor was taller than Runa; she held back her red pincers and began to charge. There would be no time to think or dodge as she dashed suddenly—he would fail in moments, they all knew—but so long as Runa saw he cared, that he did not only brush her leg because he wanted attention, some sweet or ball of rice, was it so terrible they lost the battle? Hardly anyone became the champion. (It was healthy to assume one didn't, and grow accustomed.)

Now the Scizor dashed forward, faster than he could see, and—ah! he was out at once; or just about, he felt, knocked back on the ground. There were spots in his vision—behind him Runa cried out something he did not hear.

But Runa said his strength was his speed; and now, with practice, certain kinds of motion (he stretched and bounded) were able to excite the energies. Even on land, then, he may match Tanwen or Dyna for a time (he circled the red bug Pokémon), or Gaia, quick enough, he thought, that Runa did not see him as some wormish thing. It was her dream to see them grow: it was that he could aid now: it was the thing he loved most in her, this thought of others.

(Forsyth said, "Aerial Ace!")

And was it not love, what he felt, even if it came from sickness? In human songs love was the most irrational of things, surely more than Pokémon felt. (He prepared to leap, to try and slam.) They talked about it as a thing that drove one mad; tied up hidden meanings he didn't follow, probably couldn't without being one himself; projected it everywhere—the most powerful thing, they called it. Love conquered all and ruined the strong, they said. (He went too wide and missed the Scizor.) Of course he was helpless against love! (The Scizor surrounded in white streaks.) Perhaps he felt it like a human did; perhaps, by some accident of birth, he touched on a thing meant for them, some stray psychic thread, and suffused with a quality no Pokémon ought to have. That, at least, would explain why he loved Runa.

(The Scizor released, and a blinding pain seemed to rip right through his back, as if his unshed skin cut open by a whip of pure compressed air, so well landed it was impossible to avoid.)

It wouldn't mean he was any less broken, any less sick. He lay, like so, strung out by his nature. (The energies returned to him; he moved again in a circle.) So love twisted; so it levelled, they said.

But if he had a part of human in him, he thought, did that mean he had their quality as well? Might he have a part of Runa? might she have a part of him?

Forsyth said, "Aerial Ace, again!"

That would certainly finish him: he was already nearly out. All the energies seemed to flood out of him; and in a moment, surely, once they were spent—

But something was swelling in his throat, some energy he did not recall. But if he was—oh! a blue ball of water shot out! It struck the Scizor right in the face, caught her by surprise: a Water Pulse. But that wasn't possible … he hadn't touched a technical machine in his life.

The Scizor staggered back; and as she tried to summon the air, the attack, which would certainly finish him, her eyes seemed full of confusion, and she stumbled, tried to strike and, not seeing clearly, only struck the ground—blew up the rock in front of her and fell back.

But a Scizor was very powerful, he thought. Any second she may snap out of it and strike at once: one quick attack and that was it … but that was not the point, his losing. It was to praise Runa, to try whatever the case. So Forsyth said, "Quick Attack!"—so he had a greater priority, didn't need to wait for Runa, and (for he could hardly trust it, he thought, some strange grip on water) threw himself at her, struck her thorax just below the neck and knocked her onto her wings.

There was some sort of snap: the joints of the wings were not meant to take pressure in such a direction, folded in the most horrible way. And the Scizor screeched just like the Magnemite, thrashed and kicked her legs to throw him off: clear enough her attack failed again. But was she all right? It was horrible, hearing pain like that, a thing he caused! She didn't rise—wouldn't she recover?

But Runa said, "She's fine! Keep going!"

For Forsyth called again, said to slash and finish him. And the Scizor turned over, with such a look he knew, oh, she wouldn't mind hurting him at all, wanted to slice him in half! The confusion in her eyes was all gone. And Runa behind would have to see him cut into strange pieces; and now all that came to him was that same feeling, this pitch of last effort, for if he didn't act now—And there the swell again was forming. He threw the pulse: it struck her in the middle and she fell back again, cried—went still.

Was that it, he thought, his first beaten Pokémon in a battle of trainers? Forsyth withdrew her. But it wasn't fair; she was better than him by far; it was only chance and circumstance. Behind him Dyna bleated some sort of cheer, and Runa called to say he did wonderfully—they ought not! In a minute Gaia would be out after him.

Across the field Forsyth threw a ball; he seemed like the other trainers, when a surprise move by Tanwen or Gaia turned the battle suddenly and they didn't know what to do. But why did he worry? Now the Steelix returned; seemed ten times larger up close, settling with a multitude of clanks. And how he glowered, looking at him! He would turn at once into a crêpe.

Forsyth said, "Quickly, Dragon Breath!"

Behind him Gaia cried something, but he could not hear what it was. All his spirits seemed a vapour, all the quickened energies for nothing—what was the use throwing himself against that? What did he have? what, indeed, but a sudden grip on water (so it seemed all sensible now, felt it down below the rock) that would only slide off the metal now? Now even in honouring Runa he was a failure. He felt his heart boiling up; something extraordinary, couldn't be contained; he was going to go to pieces in front of everyone, a faltering, flabby wreck.

The Steelix opened his mouth, produced the yellow glow.

But with Runa, who lifted him and, by her attention, engendered in him such a warmth that it burst out into entirely new forms of energy (for where else did the water come from?), so it felt perfectly natural he should gain a power from her, a necessary consequence of their shared affinity. For Runa had dragon fire in her—that was it—some myth of Pokémon crossing with humans bore truly, and today the blood of one of the dragon legendaries appeared in just a few humans, one in a million or more: Runa, who by her connection filled his heart so full of pressure that in a moment—

Now the pressure burst: a blue and purple energy shot out in a line and passed straight through the Steelix as if he weren't there. And the Steelix froze; let out a shuddering groan and, with a release of pent air, seemed to crumple; broke the rock around to pieces.

And that was ridiculous, he thought. The Steelix was having him on; he would rear up in a second and smash him flat. But in a flash of red he was gone. Forsyth withdrew him. The floodlights faded.

Across the field Runa shouted something; and with that, he felt, as the battle ended, as it was over, all the energies seem to drain and fade, and even to hold his head felt quite impossible. (They were running behind him.) Oh, he thought … but suppose they knew he cheated? Did he cheat? for it seemed he did, somehow—he didn't have such a power, unless, he thought, it was what Runa said.

—I don't know about Dragon Rage. (Gaia hadn't yet produced it.) If it comes from using your emotions, I don't know if it's safe to rely on. But still, it is a part of your nature.

Dragonfire was fuelled by heartfelt feeling, usually anger—flying off in outrage as they said—but that wasn't it necessarily: there were stronger feelings. Then perhaps that was it, feeling for the first time his own type's affinity, accessing the energies, just by thinking of Runa. Somehow, in his heart that generated it, part of and partaking in the fire was a human girl. (She put down Gaia, had applied the spray to her while running.) She was like a dragon, somehow—not in some wild myth as he imagined, but she was like a Pokémon in nature, in mind. And his nature felt the joint affinity; so it naturally loved her.

Runa fell over him; held him near; said nothing but, he could see, was very close to tears and kissing him. And whatever pain there was, he felt, she needn't treat, as now a blinding warmth across his skin seemed to wash all sensation away. Forsyth was saying something he couldn't hear—what did it matter? On his middle he felt such a warmth spreading that it couldn't be safe at all. Was he perhaps evolving, his whole body about to burst into light? But it was only Runa applying the spray.

Now the others demanded to hoist him: Dyna pulled Runa's arm until he was near and then she kissed him on the cheek. "[Don't take that closely!]" she said. "[It's just thanks, you know.]"

Rita said, "[You are an odd one.]"

Gaia (she was still coated in the mud of the surf) was silent, only looked at him oddly, as if he grew a new flare on his head.

"[Gaia?]" he said.

"[Oh,]" she said. "[You did well, Shadow.]"

"[N— No.]" he said, "[It was all you and Tan.]"

Tanwen said nothing, only folded her arms. She would make a passing remark later, something to the effect of luck (and it was, too, all outrageous fortune), but she was glad they won the battle.

Gaia looked away and said, "[I couldn't have beaten that Scizor.]" And he hadn't really, he should say—all fluke and flinching. But she flicked his flare and said, "[Imagine if the other Dratini could see you now.]"

But now Forsyth gave Runa the Mineral Badge, he saw—her first badge! It looked like a grey octagon, or was it blue? with a silver edge, shining as she held it. And she would get seven more just like it, he thought; she would arrive at the Silver Conference and become champion directly. She held it close and said to look: the colours of a cave Dratini, she meant.

But she looked past and said, "Gaia?"

And Gaia—oh! but what was Gaia, what was all he knew, over a year together, the instant he looked burst into a white light. Was this it? He never saw it in person—evolution! But then the Dratini Gaia was gone forever, and he did not even touch her one last time, and now … but she was growing so much bigger, more than double her length, taller than Runa! All the dirt and wet puffed off in smoke, and now the shape of the ball on her neck, the feathers and horn, and the tail—Now the light faded.

"[Oh,]" Gaia said. Her voice was deeper now.

And was a Pokémon, he was perhaps objective enough to ask, ever more beautiful? She had pink and pearl skin, and white feather wings where her flares had been, and a golden ball on her neck and two on her tail. Her skin still caught the light in transparent layers, the marvellous scale. And people said Milotic were lovely! She looked at him; Runa embraced her round the middle. And wasn't it fitting, he thought, the greatest Pokémon had the greatest trainer? Now Runa had a battler anyone would think exceptional; they could fly or swim anywhere all together, Goldenrod City and back in a day if they liked. And in close quarters on her back, they would all stick together, a full family, all holding onto each other; and Runa would hold him, the only one without a grip, closely the whole time.

Forsyth said, "Oh—may I take a photograph? I mean … for my mother, if you don't mind."

But he did mind: he should not be in it. For hadn't he just thought, when he ought to feel nothing but warmth for Gaia, his closest friend, how she got him advantage with Runa?.


	6. Level 30 - Cianwood

**Link to PDF version in profile  
**Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 30**

Not to say it wasn't very nice, he thought, looking over—the advertisements in the Corner, those selling Cianwood City to tourists, weren't far off the mark. The beach was just as fine as Olivine: a little less built, a little less full, but all the same amenities, rows of parasols on the sand, Pokémon running back and forth on the beach with human children as parents walked along slowly, stands of ice cream and frozen drinks. Human society expanded to fill all spaces. In two months Runa had grown quite dark, just for the summer, she said. There was always something to do, as the ads proclaimed, and they were at leave to do as they liked any time outside training. Yet as she and Gaia and Torus worked at the gym, he only lay under a parasol on Runa's seat—lay, and did nothing at all.

Stefan and the Arcanine were still there, he saw. Of course they were: it meant they were safe, and Runa wouldn't worry. If not for those photographers in Olivine taking notice—sister of the new champion!—if Gaia, perhaps, didn't show up so easily and excite them, the minders mightn't be necessary. —We'll be travelling again soon, Runa said, and they'll go back to college. But was it really true her family would let it go after such information? They reported everything she did, he was sure—not that they let anything slip (too expert for that), but it would be absurd to think otherwise, being after all in their pay. So the minders understood it, thought it their purpose to inform on Runa.

He turned over. There was nothing wrong with them, not as such—all perfectly kind to Runa—but really to the minders she was a client; to the paper people, the reporters, a story. She answered all their questions—yes, they were training; oh, very pleased for her; no, didn't know if they would compete—and then they left Olivine to cross the sea. But word spread by whatever connections, and her family said that if she, the champion's sister (they would seize on every excuse now), was going to Cianwood in the pink of summer and the press knew all about it, they did not want her bothered—and instead of the minders quitting Runa, instead a third came and joined them. But not for much longer, Runa said. The team was scheduled to battle Beatrix, the gym leader, in a week, and then they'd be back to Johto proper, back to the roads, all to themselves again.

It had been five months with Runa and he did not evolve. It was normal, Runa said: dragons grew slowly, but very powerful. (She said it like it was a secret, away from the others.) Yet after all that praise in Olivine—and she would deny it—he hardly improved at all, still flopped like a tumbling sack, he felt. They all thought it; didn't say anything, but he knew. He hadn't shed a bit of weight; he was thinner round the middle so Runa said it had to be muscle, that he was in the best shape of his life, but that was saying little, like a rash now blistered slightly less. At least the jokes stopped, now Dyna had evolved—right in the sea off the Whirl Islands as she boasted about one-shotting the Tentacool who grabbed her bag, so that Gaia had to make for shore at once before Tanwen and Rita ended up in the water. As an Ampharos she was only half a foot shorter than Runa, and larger too: the heaviest on the team, Tanwen said.

—At least I evolved yet.

—That's right, Dye. It's not all this water why I don't evolve. You see, I'm saving myself for you.

—Euh?

—I am. I'm waiting till we're in the middle, and we'll all go together.

Torus evolved. It was right after they arrived, as if he held on for it: onto the beach, and oh!—Abra to Kadabra. At once he went ahead in the team, took an active interest in things as if his meditations were complete. He spoke to Runa with the psychic about important matters (or perhaps they had been speaking for a while)—something to do with the team, but what, he didn't know. Torus only ever gave him the smallest conversation, as if it wasted time, he felt, the psychic being so much more intelligent. But this, he remembered, was Runa's plan from the start: now they could simply ask her a question, and Torus could tell it precisely. So Runa said,

—If there's anything you want to tell me, anything, please!

and went on saying, anything, anything; for how could she know (forgetting she guessed wonderfully up to then) how best to help them if they didn't say? She needn't have bothered! It was clear enough what Tanwen wanted, and Gaia went along with anything, Dyna too, Rita only wanting to evolve and still never battling (but it was the sea, as Tanwen said). That left only him, and he could hardly say what was really on his mind to Runa. Torus—for it was impossible he didn't know all about him, probably saw the sickness dripping from him like a poison, however psychics perceived it—Torus was bound to seize on any provocation; warn her, possibly; would have exposed him already if he wasn't so weak that a Kadabra could keep him in check with barely any effort. How did psychics work, after all? Was it a case of having to look into minds on purpose, or did it all fly out of others, show up easily like sights or voices? That would be horrible, he thought, rotten minds all around and talking—he of course a prime example, always thinking about himself and Runa, but suppose there were others, not with his particular sickness but something similar? Too many times Torus looked at him when he only thought a thing … No, he thought; Torus had to know everything, had to see others' thinking just so, like a cloud about them whether they wanted it or not. (That was why Abra meditated and slept so much, building up defences.) Psychics had to feel it in a physical sense every time someone coveted a thing, when some quaint neurosis returned, some throb of hubris, and when another's fears floundered them—so psychics had to think of other Pokémon. They were not afraid of anything; nothing came as a surprise; and possibly, he thought, it was the case that, as nothing whatever new appeared to them, as they had to be drenched in the bad thoughts of those around them every moment, they were limited in what they could afford to do and had to all economise; only keep a record of evils; dismiss the smaller things and focus on the big (or perhaps the other way around); only act, if at all, in the most extreme cases, when one was about to harm another. Perhaps it was when the hidden moved to the visible, when one drenched in the thought of a particular thing showed a sign of actually bringing it to action that they acted preemptively. Then they would do nothing, so long as others did not; but the instant one moved, they were ready—a sort of league of psychics defending things. It would be easy enough to organise, he thought, looking across the ocean, being mind-readers.

And how would it occur with him? How would he be caught in the end? Only when he gave expression to his feelings, confessed to some trusted professional, an Alakazam perhaps, being at last sick enough to say aloud what they, seeing all those others who managed it, knew ought to be shut up indefinitely.

[What is the trouble, Shadow?]

[I'm in love with my human, doctor.]

[In love … in the manner of familial warmth, a Pokémon and his trainer?]

[No, doctor.]

[I see. Please wait a moment. Some orderlies are coming presently.]

Torus said nothing yet, but he knew—only waited for the slip. And they thought he only meditated, as if one of the Alakazam line had nothing better to do!

On the towel Dyna laughed and went on talking. Oh, he thought, when was Runa back? He looked: an hour still, by the hand. He settled again.

They were very fortunate, he thought, being able to take pleasure. If nature tended to produce better states for its creatures—if macro-evolution, they called it, worked to improve the different species overall and happiness was a part of it—what did that make him but a defect? This sickness robbed him of any positive feeling. The sea, he felt; the warmth; the glass, all thawed out now; the hundred pitches of towels and sunchairs, even the humans walking—none of it he noticed except in connection with Runa. That was not a healthy view, of course, but there it was; apart from Runa, it seemed there was no point to anything, only to wait to see her. He could wait inside the gym, but that was obvious; he could ask for more training, but Tanwen wouldn't tolerate it. She said more and more now (wanted to erupt all the time, still not evolving) that Runa used to be her trainer, hers alone for three months in Johto and five with only Dyna added. Rita told her to grow up (bad wording, she admitted, under fear of a bucket to the head), but he understood: only Tan felt anything like him for Runa, not for the same reason of course but wanting her undivided attention, and the more given the more craved. But those other Pokémon he admired who could only hang on their trainer's shoulder all day and never notice! Training with Torus was unbearable. Every moment, he felt, he might do something, respond to Runa's proximity, her touch, in such a way that in the psychic's mind it constituted harm; and then he would hold him by telekinesis and, with a single impressed image, Runa would cease to argue, only flee and get the minder outside, ripping his ball from the black-taped parcel. But even Torus was better than being away from Runa entirely, lying on some beach; and after long without her he could not even eat whatever time it was, only felt a sort of raw emptiness that let the pitcher thaw, wasted that ice, wasted the berry that had dried up and left untouched the apple on the cloth, though he would be training in an hour, though he ought to—oh! his skin was freezing!

"[Oops,]" Dyna said, pulling back the bag. "[Sorry. You hate ice.]"

She took a towel and daubed him once, then returned with the refilled pitcher to her spot by Rita and Tanwen. "[Anyway. What was that about her people?]" she said, putting it on the towel.

But had they been talking about Runa's family the whole time? The Vulpix batted her several tails: she knew something, he saw, and dragged it out as long as possible. "[O, nothing,]" she said—"[only that the Pondelores are ten times larger than we thought. You see they're involved in more than just Pokémon Centres. Do you see the stand there, the one selling juice? No, that one, with the Smeargle. The one advertising how their fruit isn't grown in Koffing sludge. It says they buy from the Artisan Steppes, in Hoenn.]"

"[So?]" Dyna said.

"[So the Artisan Steppes are owned by the Emerald Corporation,]" Rita said.

"[And—?]" Tanwen said.

"[And guess who owns fifty-one percent of Emerald,]" Rita said.

Dyna said, "[So, what, they're into fruit? You mean they get it cheap for their fancy breeder Pokémon?]"

Rita said, "[But it's far beyond that, Dyna dear. This isn't mere Pokémon provender now. Do you know when the people in those Goldenrod glass towers hold a little soirée, chances are better than not they serve Artisan?]"

"[You've never even been to Goldenrod,]" Dyna said.

"[No, but that Smeargle has,]" Rita said. "[Do you think they cater themselves? Anyhow, it sparked my curiosity. I decided to look into it further: I went and asked the local library Pokémon.]"

Dyna stood up. "[Is that where you were when you went missing and the minder flipped out and called Runa?]" she said. "[And you turned up later all smug and said you were just affirming yourself or some garbage? I lost a day's training for that!]"

"[And that's terrible,]" Rita said, "[for, deprived of your company's pleasure, Dyna, I find I can't help but lose myself.]"

He looked away. Rita was always like this, always picking. Was she aware of how she looked, taking gross advantage of Runa? Was that the reason for it, to deflect attention? (Torus would know.) Once she wondered if the Pondelores weren't really a sort of country family, not in fact much different from the wilds, as after all Runa liked to camp on the routes. What a rot she was! But she might still turn around … she said anything was possible once she got her Fire Stone.

"[—But they specialise in the traditional starting Pokémon,]" Rita said, "[you know, the sort they give to small children. Did you know, Dyna, that a third of starters in every region are born in Pondelorian nurseries? Like our friend here. They've got a monopoly.]"

He looked again. Tanwen folded her arms and said, "[It doesn't mean anything. It's not easier, just because I'm bred. Why do you care, anyway? You're a wilder—that didn't stop you being a priss.]"

But something in that seemed abominable—a monopoly on Pokémon! And wasn't it expensive to raise them, and yet they were very rich? He turned and said, "[They don't sell Pokémon, do they?]"

They looked at him—he shouldn't have spoken, he felt. Tanwen said, "[Nursery Pokémon aren't sold, you clod: they're adopted. People only pay if a nursery raises their Pokémon a while. Which is weak training.]"

Tan was always worse to him when Gaia was away; and she was not quite answering the question, or did all the Pondelores' Pokémon go to nurseries? "[B— But it's expensive is all,]" he said.

Dyna said, "[I thought it was the government, you know? Like the Pokémon Centres.]" That was it, he thought: the documentary. There was a tax. He couldn't remember the details; had to read up on it later, couldn't let Runa see.

Or perhaps Rita knew. Before they might demonstrate their knowledge, he thought, she said, "[O yes, the Diet pays a fee to the Pondelores to this day. That was the condition for turning over the early Pokémon Centres: guaranteed rights to supply the nurseries. And it's through a fixed percentage tax, which the Pondelores have brought their costs rather below. It's quite an arrangement they have, for centuries now. Of course humans will always need Pokémon.]"

And—he ought not—he said, "[So they do get paid.]"

Rita looked at him and said, "[It's a commission. Do you know what that is? They're paid a fee for costs and services rendered, not the Pokémon themselves. It's the same as how a Pokémon nurse is paid but the Centre is free. If they can make a profit on it that's their quality.]"

Tanwen said, "[So what's to stop them passing a law and ending it?]"

And Rita said, "[If the Diet tried it, the Pondelores would only set up private nurseries and blow it up into a fiasco. Not that they ever would, of course. No one, I hear, gives more election money to the councillors than the Pondelores, and who do you think votes on changing the law? That's how humans work, don't you know: it's favours all the way down.]"

The Diet, he thought—the head of human government, split into parts if he remembered from that four-part documentary—was in the pocket of the Pondelores, of wealth, according to Rita. And she only saw the worst in them to match her thinking—she didn't care at all about humans, not like him!—yet she was clever (they had to give her that), possibly the cleverest of all after Torus. Gaia said he was intelligent, learnt from all the things on the screen, but that wasn't being clever, only repeating what he heard from memory. That was the difference between knowledge and intelligence: he had knowledge, absorbed a lot of facts, but didn't know how to use it, and so to call him clever was false. And Rita understood it, stuck Dyna constantly. For always Dyna said,

—How d'you know?

to something Rita said, her interpretation of the dance in Ecruteak, an idiom or some other, something she ought not to know living in the wilds; and Rita said,

—O, you'd be amazed what's in a book or two,

for Dyna, she was getting at, couldn't read. And that was not her fault, not living a year in the Corner with subtitles on a screen (which was simple, matching the voices) or, as Rita said, a book she found in the long grass (which was much more difficult). So Dyna perhaps lacked knowledge; but she was really cleverer than him—they all were—as was Rita. But if Rita was clever, why did she dismiss Runa's philosophy?

Runa's family owned property in every region, Rita was saying, businesses and hotels and manufacturing plants and greenhouses, industries of every sort. Perhaps then Runa didn't even pay at half the places they stayed, for if money was no object, if it was bound to make a profit later, why wouldn't they simply buy a hotel in Cianwood City and put up their daughter in the finest room? (And the room they slept in had to be the best in the city. The people in the lobby straightened up and acted differently when they saw her. But Runa never said anything about it.)

"[And they're in well with the ball factories,]" Rita said, "[and they're on the boards of the Silph Company and Devon Corporation as well. There's a lovely book I had them order on the whole history. They're ranked with the Stones in Hoenn and the Blacks and Medivicis in Unova as among the richest, most powerful families in the world—the tip of the top. I must say we've all rather fallen into fortune.]"

He didn't need any of this: none of it mattered, he felt, only detracted. If Runa were penniless, if she lived and travelled on the trainer's stipend, she would be very happy; the wealthier her family, however, the more attention from others, and the more responsibility spilt onto her that took away from her mission. Or perhaps, he thought, looking back toward the cobble and the street (Stefan was still there), perhaps it did help; perhaps, wealth being so central to human society, she may use it to spread her method, her philosophy? For she mentioned it once in passing: a school, a place to teach Pokémon, which if everything went well was her great plan; and that required money. So wealth was not all bad: a human invention to make dreams possible, he thought. Then it was really the perfect fit for Runa (he looked again), being herself immune to its bad effects, what people called a sense of privilege.

"[You'll turn to rot, I know,]" Dyna said, filling Rita's glass. "[You'll go to their place and turn into a couch cushion. They'll have to put a sign up or people sit on you.]"

Rita sniffed and inspected the drink. "[When Runa returns to Goldenrod and buys a Fire Stone I'll have a thousand years to do whatever I like—there's no need,]" she said, "[to bowl after things.]"

Now Tanwen said, "[You're disgusting.]" Oh, he thought—it was going to turn into an argument now, he knew, just from the tone. "[Runa shouldn't give you anything you didn't earn through hard work and grafting. Even Shadow does his bit. You're just lax—a Fire Stone's wasted on you.]"

Rita smiled at her and looked bored. "[Perhaps it's my nature,]" she said. "[Wouldn't Runa say it's shameful to abuse me for my most natural nature? I think it's shameful, don't you, Dyna?]" But Dyna only sucked her straw and watched.

"[It's shameful being a weed on the team,]" Tanwen said. "[Runa wants ones who'll battle and not just sleep and suck ice all day. I mean, what are you even for, following her? You're only here because Runa won't tell you to go away and munch grass.]"

And now Dyna wanted to argue; and Rita said, "[Because between Shadow, a shiny, and a stunted Quilava, Runa's famous for her love of utility.]"

They were all moments from a great row, and now the minders had to see, and what did they think of Runa? Didn't they make her look like a hopeless trainer? He shouldn't get involved—but why, he thought, why did they have to abuse Runa in the process? Did they even realise? Wasn't it the very peak of praiseworthiness that Runa chose them for their own good and not her own, that she never treated them differently but was meticulous in seeing they all got a fair part, all had equal attention?

He said, "[Runa loves us all the same.]"

At once he was the target. "[That's fresh from you,]" Tanwen said.

He felt his heart doubling. "[Why?]" he said. How ridiculous, how guilty he must sound!

"[Really?]" she said. She turned fully toward him—oh, such a mistake to speak! "[Runa's pet scarf is going to play innocent? Like we don't see you wrapping round her shoulders every chance you get. You couldn't be more coddled if you were an egg.]"

He said, "[Y—]" and turned away to hide his blush. She was jealous, he might say, wanted Runa to herself; Dyna would support him, usually defended him since saving her, she put it, at Olivine, and Rita would join in. But then Runa returning would find her in a terrible mood; no one would explain or talk; the whole evening would be ruined. And suppose Torus really was reporting to Runa? He would know at once who was responsible—see it as a lapse in control.

He wouldn't stay. He looked: the watch was covered by Dyna's towel. "[What time is it?]" he said.

Dyna picked up the watch and said, "[Uh—]"

"[It's three twenty,]" Rita said.

Runa would finish at four, return for a long evening with all of them. He rolled off the chair—too long laying out, being lazy (he might have exercised all the time). "[I'm going to wait at the gym,]" he said.

"[Oh, what a surprise,]" Tanwen said, turning and whistling—so rude, he thought, treating the minders like that! (It brought shame on Runa.) The boy put down his book and looked; the Arcanine started forward. And it wasn't necessary—no one would try and steal him only going through the city—but the minders insisted.

And hang what the others thought! He folded the cloth over the apple on the table and took the corners in his mouth. He would bring her an apple, that she knew he thought of her.

The Arcanine said, "[To the gym?]"

He was sorry for the whistle, he said, speaking carefully around the cloth. It wasn't his fault, she said. (Then they did think it shameful, he thought.) Would he rather hold on? But he needed the stretch. They went on into the city.

Runa's scarf, he thought … how he nearly died! For a moment he imagined her only saying that he was in love—he didn't wrap round her that often, did he?—plant the idea if it wasn't already in the others' minds. He couldn't hide adoring her, but to love? Apart from Torus that had to be a secret. Tan was only feeling sore, saying things. She hadn't evolved for eight months; Gaia evolved in three, and dragons, they said, took ages for it, as they lived so long. That was the cause of it, that picture in the paper: Runa and her Dragonair, Gaia being, in the view of every stranger, first in the team, far more than some Quilava they didn't know. And Torus rose quickly now that he really participated, and Dyna too was very powerful; so Tanwen, who always thought herself number one, had to feel sick that she was fighting for anything from second to fourth, only him quite inferior. So she felt her influence waning, and the injustice felt intolerable; so she grew apart, caused friction in the team. How could anyone harm Runa when she wanted nothing but to help? It was absurd; it was like a Voltorb self-destructing! But suppose Tanwen left, and Rita as well?

(The Arcanine went around him, between the cars along the crossing.)

Suppose Dyna left. If Runa knew she never liked battling she would insist she stop and didn't put herself through it for her sake. But then what did it mean for Runa if half the team abandoned her? What did it mean for her approach? It would appear as if Pokémon didn't care for dreaming; it suggested they didn't amount to anything without direction. Would she doubt herself, then, her philosophy? Not that, he thought—a thing she proved and reasoned after all, with Torus's endorsement. And besides, he thought, moving out along the crossing beside the Arcanine, all the people looking, keeping behind her legs—besides, it was only an invention of his nerves. He always saw the worst in things, Gaia said, and so he was always afraid. It was a matter of perspective, having a sense of proportion. Whereas all the great humans had such understanding, and hence a sticking power: Runa would persevere.

But the city (leave all that) was really incredible! What had been a bare beach, hardly more than sand and a few trees and a valley, now became by human hands Cianwood City, a resort anyone may come to visit (so they did in summer, more than even Olivine). So humans could do: take a place that was home to only wilders and—though others pointed to that like a criticism, taking away the long grasses and habitats, forgetting the Safari Zone covering much of the island, even spreading ten years ago to a new reserve at Mount Silver—taking all that and replacing it with shelter for many times their number of Pokémon as well as humans; forming a thousand new lives and families; giving all a thorough life, in advanced conditions.

Take that street, he thought (he looked through the Arcanine's legs). Runa took them down it one evening after training, and they saw a café, a restaurant, a residential block itself with many whole families, a Pokémon Mart, and a dozen other places he could not recall—that, one street. There were hundreds in the city; thousands in Goldenrod, in Saffron, in Castelia of Unova, the great metropolis: hundreds of cities: a hundred thousand streets: tens of millions of humans and Pokémon living together. And every one of them—that street, the old man who played a song for Runa on his stringed instrument, the Skitties in the café, the passing trainer who looked, the nurse and the Chansey carrying boxes to the clinic—every street had that again, all the stories multiplied a million times. Whereas in the wilds, it would be a flock of Pidgeotto, a hive of Beedrill, a rotten, pecked-at orchard: that's what wilders produced.

There was something in humans (so must be the case, the only way to explain it) that drove them to expand and adapt, to fit the environment to the one or the one to it, or both: all things adapted, all efforts taken. So the Cianwoodite, or was it Cianwooder? acted just the same, and every human in the world had that ability: adaptation: engineering: the universal talent of humankind.

It was not, he said, as if his attraction was all in rotten taste; disturbed he may be, but it was not entirely outside reason. Humans were simply the extraordinary species of the world, the one ahead of any form of Pokémon, lacking their energies but also limitations, gaining powers not by evolution but through their own will. Humans could not control energy, could not generate it from nothing like a Pokémon; so they invented a method, technology. Humans did not do well in the wilds; in civilisation, they lived better than any wilder. They created whole societies, worlds of science and art and culture, formed collective enterprises, institutions, all affairs of organisation better than any Pokémon could conceive, surpassing by—what was the term? a multiplicity? An order of magnitude. Nothing Pokémon had done compared: in thousands of years, even with their abilities, even with Alakazam and legendaries throughout, there was nothing, not a trace of civilisation; no clawed-out pictures in a cave or scrap of writing; no pot or tool as in those old burial sites (the other side, the Arcanine said, so they wouldn't stare) from the programme on lost civilisations. Something set humans apart, some trait Runa herself did not admit. The urge to adapt, to build … to architect? he thought. Whatever it was, humans did it naturally, and Pokémon did not; hence society in one and not the other. So was it outrageous, if yet unnatural, was it absurd and obscene if he only felt more for them than Pokémon? than some other Dratini in a cave? Pokémon were, by most standards, fixed: they evolved along set paths; whereas humans lacked any bounds at all, and yet were so elegant! so ordered in their creations! Structures set up and folded before them, constrained to no set moves or methods. A dancer on a stage; a bronze-skinned girl playing Flip, he thought. Was it possible Runa changed the world? No Pokémon had such power, none but the legendaries who, if they did anything, did it broadly and without finesse or order. But any human could ascend to greatness in society; one could affect the many, turn over a million lives for the better, or the one; and that to humans was to evolve, to become something greater than any Pokémon by far.

("[Mind that,]" the Arcanine said. The van passed ahead.)

Take language, for instance (the van advertised a Better Kanji class): language was the finest case. Humans were born without any understanding of language, whereas Pokémon had it right from the egg. So humans—like that—invented their own, and not just one but many. No Pokémon would have conceived it! Granted they didn't need it, had a strange ability to understand all human speech as well, seemed to know in advance, but they never modified their own: never had a Pokémon invented language. And mathematics (so she had explained it to him once while all the others were sleeping, read the textbook by lamplight on the beach and explained each part as he looked)—mathematics too, that human invention, was like a language: it had a grammar, a syntax, many different symbols. A sentence in one language may be an action and an object, a doing and a thing to do it: mathematics had the equation, two things and a relation between them, an is or less-than or approximately. He did not quite recall everything, what part of the equation was what kind of word in Runa's explanation, but he was, he thought, rather distracted, coiled up in her lap. She was happy to explain, glad he showed an interest, that he only wanted her to keep speaking even if he didn't follow (a language lacked by Pokémon, it seemed). She said he was different from the rest, that he was inquisitive; she stroked him and turned the propped-up page, showed the picture, and said he had a bright mind. And then as if from nowhere, though she said it often but now, now it seemed more than a fondness but indeed a matter of record, she leaned forward, kissed his head and said,

—You can do anything, Shadow,

and then put her reading glasses on his nose. His whole face had turned pink, he knew. And she could not read well without them, nor he with them, but she continued, explained all the shapes of mathematics from memory.

Was it possible—and that would be his sickness talking, his wretched want—but was it possible that, with her philosophy, her reasoning on the nature of Pokémon (she wrote a little book on their natural gifts, would show him one day if he liked but had to rework it first, being that she was not a trainer when she wrote it), with it being right in her nature to say, Humans and Pokémon are just people in different forms, not any different in thinking … was it not possible that counted feeling as well, and love? It was the sickness talking, he knew, trying to assert itself, to force a persuasion that it wasn't wrong, that it would be all right to let out, that somehow she already understood—would let him sleep on her lap knowing fully what that could mean to Pokémon. For that was how eggs produced, when sleeping: two Pokémon filled with the same drowsy warmth he felt with Runa fell asleep together and—oh!—an egg appeared in a white flash, like evolution, said the show. So he wished to sleep near Runa, to stretch out beside her and drown in her warmth—that part was natural. (It wasn't the same with humans: they showed love in other ways, ones the screens never told him: he would have to find out about it some day.) But that was biology; love itself was in the mind, if the mind was any more than the body (wasn't it more than body, if there were physics?). And if that was true, wasn't it possible—only a hope, he knew, a sweet lie, for didn't he lie to himself? only pretend he may evolve and recover, somehow get over his sickness by acclimation—wasn't it possible that, if Runa thought a Pokémon was a person, if a person was capable of being loved, so then may she have a chance to love him?

And that was the mark of incurable sickness, he thought, what would see him carted off one day. There the gym doors would blow open and troops of Mankey and Machoke would fly out at Torus's command.

They paused at the last crossing; Miyuki waited at the gym door, put away her book when she saw them. He interrupted everyone, he thought, on account of his little want, blocked her study, pulled the Arcanine from her trainer's side, all for the sake of his nerves.

"[I'm fine now,]" he said—"[really. You don't have to— Oh!]"

The cloth slipped from his mouth: the apple fell and bounced across the stone where everyone walked—spoiled entirely. It was nearly off the kerb when the Arcanine put her paw on it and picked it up between the pads.

"[The Pondelores,]" she said, replacing the apple and taking the cloth in her teeth, pushing him across the cobbled square, "[are trillionaires. Forgive me if I don't let any random person grab you. Arcanine's instincts.]""

Maybe Stefan would become a Jenny, he thought. But that was the other part of it: Being so wealthy, having it in her power to have anything she liked, even if she did love a Pokémon, she would only be mad to love him.

Miyuki checked her watch and said, "They're done in fifteen minutes. Were you going to wait? And you brought her something—that's sweet!"

Sweet, he thought (she took the apple and the cloth and began to wipe it): sweetest of all her Pokémon by outward appearances. Suppose the apple was rotten inside—she couldn't blame him for that, could she? He wrapped up on the cobble by the gym wall. And if, he felt, it was beyond control, if evolution did not fix the matter—if, he thought, he really cared for Runa and wanted her the best—there was only one thing he should do. For Dragonair could fly; so he ought to fly away.

But that apple, he saw—that bruised thing. It wasn't fit for Runa now; and his stomach felt terribly raw. She mustn't risk a germ.

* * *

—It's an advantage, Shadow. (Dyna had frowned at Runa across the dojo floor, but didn't she say it herself about his thickness?) It makes all their physical attacks weaker, and it doesn't seem to affect your speed. You're better protected from ice than any dragon in the world! When you're a Dragonite, you'll say it's a blessing.

The Hitmonchan backed away and knelt, raised his arms in defence. Beatrix's Pokémon was more or less spent already; it was ridiculous, Runa's weakest coming on to fight; Torus blasted them all to such an extent that now—in a gym leader battle!—he was only brought in for the experience. It was almost insulting; but the battle-girl Beatrix, as she styled herself, only laughed in a happy way. Some trainers were like that: they didn't mind losing, rather praised their opponent. But what about their Pokémon? It wasn't the trainer knocked unconscious, only the ones she called friends.

Beatrix ordered the same again, another strike, and so he would follow similarly, circle round again and fling his body into a slam. A cleverer attack was for someone like Gaia—someone who did not, he thought, access the energies at random. As Runa said,

—You don't have to use a big attack every time. It's the reliable ones that make a great battler's staple. (But didn't she say it took a stretch to grow, and not always doing the same thing over?)

As he had the heightened energies, he circled the Hitmonchan, touching the ground lightly; the fighting Pokémon turned, could not quite track him. And in a moment—there was his opening, raising the arm—he bunched and leapt forward (closed his eyes, had to get over that)—slammed the middle, grappled the waist (just enough momentum, all increased in the slam)—threw him on the floor. Then the punching Pokémon could not kick him off, arms out as they were. In a few more moments, he tapped the ground and went limp. The Hitmonchan vanished in a flash of red light, and he was left on the pad.

But wasn't there another? he thought. He was certain there was one more; but the lights went up around the pad, and now it was all over, and the gym trainers who had watched all applauded; in the seating the very large man Chuck stood with his bag of candy and whooped, as he did when meeting Runa.

—Wahaha! Good to see such healthy-looking Pokémon in battle! I'll bet you take punches like a champion's Snorlax!

The man made him want to curl—Beatrix seemed a rather fitter gym leader—it wasn't right, he thought, applauding what was really a certain win with Torus. But being so certain, why did Dyna and Tanwen have to take such a drumming? He only had the weakened one, came in at the end—Now Runa was near.

She picked him up, twirled him, set him down and had a potion (her pet, Tanwen would say, fêted for doing nothing)—kissed him on the nose, of course, so that his whole head was warm. Imagine ending a battle and then fainting at a kiss, at the touch of Runa's hand on his neck as she knelt and sprayed him! (The warmth spread all along his skin.) She didn't treat the others like that; didn't kiss Torus on the nose as he returned from fainting that Machoke, nor Dyna after she got the worst of it, took that Poliwrath's punch right in the beak and was knocked out entirely, so that Torus had to come in again (it was never meant to happen!). Dyna might have used a little kiss, considering how she looked, saying, —I don't know if there's a rotten point. For a week ago Gaia learned the Thunderbolt, and now Dyna fainted the second time in battle, and this against a water type! And Runa did hold her, did sit with her as Torus and Tanwen went out; but it was a sign, Dyna meant, some cap on her powers, for wasn't she fully evolved?

Beatrix gave Runa a golden badge in the shape of a fist. "This is the Storm Badge, Runa," she said—"take it! Let it stand to prove your triumph over these fighting trainers and Pokémon. Just don't rely on psychics for everything, ha ha!"

But this warmth wasn't going at all, was actually spreading across his skin—rotten right through, he thought, if a little touch from Runa did that! Now Gaia bent low beside him. She hadn't battled, left it to them, as she suggested; it was tied up from the start with Torus, and he would get more from it than her, she said.

"[Didn't it hurt, being hit all those times?]" Gaia said.

"[O— Oh, it did,]" he said. Didn't he look hurt? "[I think it hurt more than I thought … I don't feel very well.]"

Really there was something wrong with him: his vision was going dark from above and below, and now little white spots appeared all around. Didn't the potion work properly? His whole skin was tingling; he could not catch his breath. Suppose one of the punches did a serious internal injury? suppose he bled from the inside? he thought. But now (he could hardly see at all), now he was definitely going to faint. And Runa was still talking to Beatrix … wouldn't she hold him? She had to take him away, straight to the Centre.

—Shadow?

Who said it? Something touched his back; and in an instant everything was white.

There was no pain; no feeling at all but a profound lightness, a swell, a kind of rushing energy, as if all his body evaporated. Was this dying? he thought. Yet he was something, to ask the question. Had some vessel burst and now his brain let go, and his mind flew away whole as certain humans said? Oddly he was not afraid. Death, the next evolution, whatever the case was, had to fill one with a calm. But if he was dying, if he was dead already and this was the new reality, only a white light and a thought—if his heart burst and all the rest of it went on, then he was leaving Runa: she held his cold body as his soul flew away, tried to shake him to life; beat his breast; pressed her mouth over his and blew to revive him as in all the shows. She would go on all her years remembering how she felt, only thinking of the little Dratini that summer, who died suddenly in pursuit, she'd say, of his dream; and by that thought eventually she would make peace and forget him. Now the fear returned—he had to fly back, force himself into the atoms, the brain, whatever it took, however it worked! But now the flowing energy (carrying him away) already seemed to stop, to reverse; he felt a sort of condensation, as though his own lightness fixed onto things; a sense of closing boundaries; a drag, as if a million points of light that had been dancing through the air all at once connected again to gravity, and like little metal spheres they bounced and stuck together, flowing still but now again confined to contours, to body, to skin, all the ends quivering.

The light went away: he was back in the gym: he seemed to be held up by many hands—the pad, settling around his body. But he was so high up! And there was Gaia looking up, a head below him; and there, at the end of his tail, two shiny blue spheres to match hers.

And then something touched him below the neck; and as if there flipped a switch, everything returned at once, the warmth, the fear, and the thrill—Runa touching the white of his middle, looking up at him.

"Shadow—!" she said.

He never got a clear answer from Gaia how it felt to evolve: she didn't have the words, she said. Everything grew with evolution—that he knew now. When Runa touched him, what if he was honest he always knew to be the case occurred at last: evolution only made the sickness worse, far worse. For as if a Dratini only felt at the skin, and what he thought was terrible cold or heat was really only a surface brush, now he felt it sink deeply; right to his heart, his marrow, he felt, this heat suffused him. And never so quickly did it strike his brain; for it would be so easy now, he felt, so wild, just to press his nose against her cheek, her neck, she of course throwing her arms around him, flying up into the air and landing on the peak of a great grassy hill, quite alone, quite adjoined in senses.

He shivered; he looked at Gaia. He should have swallowed that Everstone as Dyna said! It was all far, far worse; he wouldn't last a week—completely intolerable—he would snap any moment, and Torus would have the minders come, Beatrix herself to ball him.

Torus, he thought—he had to know everything. He looked, but all the others were on him now, Dyna jumping onto his back and grabbing round his body as if to ride him, Rita batting his tail, Tanwen standing very still, and Gaia, now, looking at him as Runa did as if to say he grew, was a different Pokémon now, as if to ask if for him it was the same. And though Runa still touched him—and he was quite as before, still overthick for a Dragonair, hadn't lost that in evolution—slowly, mercifully he felt the heat subsiding, senses returning at the tips, as if in waves one mind could only feel so much sensation and now, raw from evolution, mounted a defence—one the next wave, or the next, would at length succeed to break apart, and lose the mind entirely.

"[Were you afraid?]" Gaia said.

She ought to know him by now. He nodded.

She touched the ball of his neck, as like hers. It felt connected to his energies directly, a stronger way to access them: evolution increased all powers. Then she flicked the feathers on his head and said, "[Gummy.]"

Across the arena floor they heard a great sob, smothered in a cloth; and now the man Chuck was clambering over, running toward them, crying something about health and beauty. And Dyna clambered higher and said she wouldn't be squashed; but as he was so high up, taller even than Runa, looking now he saw Torus. And how obvious it was, he thought, seeing the Kadabra's look, that he knew everything in his mind, knew exactly what he felt, pressed against Runa.


	7. Level 35 - Saffron (Scenes 1-10)

**Link to PDF version in profile**

Chapter split into two parts (first with scenes 1 to 10, second with scene 11) for ease of reading in a chunk  
My apologies for the large delay—a lot of unexpected real-life events have interposed themselves between my time and this. Possibly the next will be just as delayed or more, but I hope I'll find the chance.  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 35**

It was, as one said, a moral justice. For he wanted to be alone with Runa; and now she would leave him behind.

That or he was being quite conceited, unable even for an instant to think outside himself. But at night—this night in particular—lying out in the air on the shore after Runa went to bed without reading, only kissed him like the others without holding his tail beside her, having so much else on her mind, often it seemed if he did not keep watch all night she would get up and, as if to join her morning constitutional, only fly away on Gaia into the horizon—he waking up alone on an empty beach. Which was nonsense, of course, he knew—and it didn't help Runa, his losing sleep—but there it was, every time she forgot to hold him, as she did tonight, worrying about her family.

—You'll get a good rest in Saffron City. You'll have a bed just for you and Gaia.

Things had been going well, insofar as he hadn't yet destroyed himself. Taking the Golden Coast from Olivine to Goldenrod occupied him enough in training to keep a distance in the day from Runa for all of summer—enough training to distract. It was easier now that Tanwen evolved, now that she relaxed enormously. She still pressed about trying for the next year's championship—Manda's team would be defending their title in Silver Town in just a month, and yet they were taking time to meet them—about needing to win six badges in a year. Runa said they needn't decide on the tournament yet, but that they would train continually to keep it open. Didn't Manda spend six years in training before she entered the championship? Over a thousand battles without one loss, he thought, without either of her top two fainting, because Manda was calm and patient.

—They're slacks. (Dyna said Tanwen's ego evolved twice as a Typhlosion.) I'd have got it years ago. (She was only sore, Gaia said, that she had already fainted in battle, unlike a certain pair of Dragonair.)

He found by training speed—always moving about, always at a stretch to exercise (though still his thickness remained, still nothing affected that)—Runa wouldn't mind his being apart. The trick was to put in enough time that when it came to camp, once they ate and Runa settled by her lamp to read for an hour, he was exhausted enough that he could lie near and his passions would not affect him—a balancing act which, he felt, was rather like navigating a tunnel in ice hardly wider than himself, having to match every turn for the whole length of his body lest he touch the sides. To succeed in the acrobatic feat of being as close to Runa as possible without actually prompting her to touch or, in that case, without slipping into agonies of heat, was so far as a psychic may see it his entire living dream. When the sun set late and the air was warm, she often slept outside the bag; sometimes she laid her hand by his nose—how he swam all night! barely got a wink, suffered a fatigue the next day that made Runa think he pressed himself too hard, that he ought to take a break; and then some nights, more so lately (she didn't know it fed his sickness, his abuse of her company), as she stayed up to read, as she expected him to come over, he would come and, like that, she wrapped her arm around him, only held him as she read. (It was nothing like a Dratini.) And just last morning—this very day!—this morning he felt a strange pressure, the warmth of her hair, a single strand of which affected him now, a deep spreading heat as he saw and understood: Runa fell asleep with her whole head on his middle.

—Oh … I'm sorry, Shadow. (He couldn't help it; she woke as he moved.) I fell asleep on you.

That was quite enough to set off wild fantasies of flying off with her, finding, of course, that she was quite as much in love with him and then more, humans being greater both in feeling and self-control. So they would find a hollow or cave, some place of warm shelter from storms of ice or water, where for her benefit (so his sickness always took time to present, not a monster of course, allow this flight) he would wrap as close as possible, press the ball of his neck to warm her and rest his head on her shoulder, and, breathing through her hair until his own breath, until every part of him felt saturated with Runa, kiss her from shoulder to neck to cheek, following her own direction. So he spent a whole day in the most wretched condition, racing in circles through the trees until Gaia came and asked what bothered him, and he said (the one excuse that always succeeded, presenting another neurosis) he only wanted to be fitter for Runa, that he was useless and fat. Yet didn't this prove he was tolerable?—not, of course, to suggest he was harmless, Torus knowing after all what he imagined, but wasn't it better, deliberately keeping away? Perhaps, he thought, looking across the sea (there was the light of a ship on the water), it only proved he was mad, had gone mad—what was it?—eight months ago in the Corner, and only didn't know it because, when you were mad, they said, you thought you were the only sane one.

At any rate returning with Gaia for the evening meal—it was a moral justice—they saw Runa speaking earnestly on her phone, and somehow he knew at once she wouldn't see him that night. Their plans were changed, she told them: they were done with beaches. (Tanwen sat up.) Everything came in a rush: In the morning they would fly to Goldenrod; take the Magnet Train that same day and arrive in Saffron City before sunset; leave Torus with Bill, the legendary Pokémaniac; buy a Fire Stone; meet Manda. There was a great opportunity, Runa said, that she wouldn't yet raise their hopes with by explaining but which required that she see her parents in Celadon City—leaving them all in Saffron for the day. He hardly saw her so excited, so anxious! And they would meet more of the family, she said, Manda's Pokémon, and they would make good friends and be thought very well, and there was no need to feel intimidated, she said, or to worry, just because Manda's Pokémon were the champions.

But why, he thought (placing himself above everyone, he knew), if things were well enough already and all was growing steadily, why was she happy just to fly off and meet them, those who dismissed her philosophy, who after all thought more of her sister? And why must they stay in Saffron City, as she went off at once to Celadon? She would be apart from them for a whole night and day, in another city without them.

—There's no point in everyone coming. Saffron's much more interesting! Torus will meet me there so everyone else can just relax at the hotel. You'll have fun—I promise!

So it was rotten conceit, but he could not put down the thought that he was somehow responsible, that if not for his disquiet, his avoiding her in the day, she would think more of her success; and then she would not be so excited to go. That was proof, he thought, that he didn't deserve to touch her hand. They would arrive in Saffron City around sunset; he would go right to bed and not leave until she returned.

* * *

Kanto looked not much different to Johto, he thought, by sight of the countryside, of the sea, high above in the Magnet Train. Perhaps his fixation on humans and their work only blinded him; as the others pressed against the glass, as they saw the forests and fields and mountains passing, he looked, and all he saw was land and sea. But the track, the train, products of human invention and engineering, moving, Runa said, almost as fast as a Dragonite in flight, yet so smooth they actually mixed poffins two cars down—that was a thing! Dyna understood: she was giddy the moment they entered the Golden Tower, the shining train terminal raised high above Goldenrod, the line curling away in both directions.

—It's just, you know, I saw it whizzing by every day but I never thought I'd get to ride it! Look—it's coming up!

She had pointed at everything as they passed Route 32: that river, that field where lived some tedious Ampharos who made living a chore, always going on about how the Flaaffy must be models for the Mareep, and so how she looked up at the track and imagined … Then it was gone, out of view. She went on a while longer, recounted how she used to spend the winter scrabbling about for weeds in the snow, nothing like the one on the cape before Runa reached Goldenrod, drinking hot chocolate every day. Then as the train passed into the tunnel that skirted all the way past Victory Road, she stopped; seemed to think it was a boring subject and, touching Runa's leg, intimated that she wanted a juice.

—O, Rita said.

She said that several times on the way, he noticed. She had her Fire Stone at last: she had become a beautiful Ninetales. (She always said she wanted to evolve at some auspicious location, and seeing the grandeur of the Goldenrod Department Store, it happened she didn't wait long.) All sense of what happened around her then seemed to vanish in transit; some swell of powers, he thought, reinforced her calm, and nothing whatever affected her now. Would she battle? Perhaps she would; for the moment she seemed content only to repose and forget mischief. She did not even flare up when Dyna touched her tail, only looked with her red eyes and put her head down again. Somehow that bothered Dyna; she wished they had brought Torus.

Runa had a book but didn't read for most of the trip. As he came near she put the book away and stroked him. —I was just thinking, she said. Everyone's evolving already. And when you— But she didn't finish, only left for the shop. Gaia said not to dwell on it.

—She means when we're both evolved and carrying the team. It just sounds bad to say.

The train stopped so that a bird tamer could clear a flock of Spearow from the track; after a few minutes Dyna rattled at the bars and Tanwen said to be less of a pest. Over the forest and sea, the white lanes of Cycling Road were just visible over the water. Let them flock, he thought—let it last a month! If the cars were stocked, if Runa had books to read, he wouldn't mind any length waiting. The Pokémon carriage was nearly empty—hardly fit for seats when Gaia was thirteen feet long and he another nineteen inches (it accounted for half his extra weight, Runa said, scaling proportionally). He would lie out along the whole wall, lay his head on her leg, if she liked, for hours.

Or suppose there was an accident, he thought; suppose the train derailed, fell into the forest—the track ruined for miles around, all the others flung far from the wreck, only he and Runa, her only protector, all sorts of predatory Pokémon ready to grab her. Runa had a bump—no pain at all, but she was dizzy, and it wasn't safe to fly her—and now a storm setting in, preventing any effort to search, they fled into a cave where there was no heat at all but their own. Runa wrapped him tightly. There was no one about, she would say—no one who'd know. There was no reason to hold back any longer: it would be Runa who started it. She would undress her shoulder and—The train started moving again. The driver apologised and said they would be in Saffron City before dark. No, he didn't want any juice; he turned away, away from Runa.

* * *

Kanto, as he saw it, was no different from Johto; but Saffron City was nothing like Goldenrod. Where Johto's capital was young and sprawling, prosperous, seemed rather fresher, being on the sea, Saffron felt more like Ecruteak—if it were magnified in every respect many times. Here, he felt, civilisation centred; here it founded. Every city had a character that marked it from others: Ecruteak had its history, the towers, the legendary Pokémon who once lived there, the sense that, passing through it, one shared in a real way the sight of humans and Pokémon who passed many centuries ago; Olivine had the ocean and its warm unbounded air—a port of relaxation—like the boundary between active life and stillness; and Cianwood was that stillness, where moving things came to rest a while. And Saffron? It was Kanto: Kanto, he imagined, was that place containing Saffron.

Saffron, Runa said, was sister city to Goldenrod; and to Runa's Goldenrod, he thought, Saffron was certainly fitted to Manda. Every roof was trimmed in red and gold; every tree was a distinguished age; it was all grander still than Goldenrod, yet almost out of place, he thought, as the Magnet Train's terminus, much of the city predating the industrial era. Titles and names figured prominently on the store fronts and the grand towers; imparted a sense of heredity, he felt, that not even the natural life-cycle affected things here. And though perhaps no human drew the connection, there was no escaping a sense of the wilds, of being incidental; for whereas in Cianwood or some other small city, where every street may concentrate a hundred lives or more yet still the average Cianwooder could know the whole city, have a notion of every shop and corner and shared something in common with everyone, here in Saffron it was simply impossible. Here whole lives expended never knowing more than a small part of the metropolis, a neighbourhood, a corner, just as a wilder from Route 32 may have intimate knowledge of a certain field or river, may have lived her whole live in Johto, but moving just a short way out of sight had nothing left in common at all, became as much a stranger as a Kantonite.

Goldenrod was an enormous city, of course, too large to really know; but in Saffron, the span, the sprawl was incredible, so that at first he thought they arrived early but it was only the suburbs, stretching out miles ahead of the station. Most human cities adhered to their environment, yet Saffron was so large, so full of its own gravity, that environment rather was Saffron itself—nature seeming to have ceded this part of the world entirely, as if never a hill nor a tree stood there: so the setting sun framed the city, fit the clouds about it, as the grey of the towers stood through them.

As they went on Runa grew stiffer. She kept her hand in her bag, looked to each of them so that they gathered around her when the station was still some minutes off. This call to see her parents, he thought, had to be about them—that was the only explanation—her family was testing her, checking she was any good. If she passed (and she would, she was certain, wouldn't allow it otherwise), all was well; but suppose they judged her unfairly? Suppose they took one look at him and thought, As she clearly doesn't keep her Pokémon in good condition …

The Pondelores were strong in Kanto, Rita had said. They had many properties—most humans here lacked even one—and nowhere more than Saffron, where the returns were always greatest: property bred wealth, Rita said. Was it chance they had so much of it? he thought. Might it have been any family? But the Pondelores had a great act behind them, setting up the first Pokémon Centres. It must have taken a champion, some great architect with a vision, like Runa, to start the thing; after that, it was just a quiet growth for centuries, no more great feats necessary.

The train slowed; in a minute they would be on the platform, mobbed with flashes, perhaps, people on their phones talking or taking pictures like the ones who thought they got away with hiding it in the carriage. Saffron was an old city; everyone had seen everything once presumably, only glanced at Gaia and that was it; but Runa Pondelore in their car, they thought, heiress to however many blocks of the city, sister of the Indigo League Champion—!

"I wish there was time to explore," Runa said, standing. "We'll do something before we leave. But you shouldn't wander—please. You'll be happy at the hotel."

Principled though it was, he thought, why did she feel a need to hesitate, to temper what seemed too close to a command, rather than simply say, You must—, or, You mustn't—, when it was necessary? The others made light of all Runa's conditional phrases, always making clear she only suggested plans for them to ratify—they didn't appreciate. But sometimes Runa did take her rule too far, thought too much of Pokémon. Sometimes she commanded without realising, only assuming that he wouldn't want to follow her to Celadon. Without seeming to notice, Runa leant and, just for a moment, put her arm around his middle—and then again she never shooed him once in all the time. Would she even say if he came too close?

But none of that, he thought. For all the psychics in Saffron, he thought, here he was: a black-rotten Dragonair, disgorging from the Magnet Train to spoil their city.

The frame of the door chimed and slid open (Dyna pressing the button to feel better, he thought), and they followed Runa onto the stone platform, all the warm air rolling over them, Gaia the other side of her. At once the platform crowded, people stepping off and joining others, embracing one who waited (part of their proximate Saffron, he thought) or only disappearing into the rest, everywhere but this, the Pokémon carriage, where the few trainers with business stepped off, no one waiting at this part of the station—no one, he saw, apart from two stepping away from the wall, an Arcanine and a girl the colour of Runa.

And how did he think he would react? It wasn't that, of course, that made him flush. On second look she was very different from Runa. She had a similarly shaped face, slightly lighter skin (more time inside, he supposed); she was several inches taller, twenty-one years old to Runa's fifteen. Her hair was shorter, not straight as such but not falling into layers like Runa's, not weathered by training on the road. But she held herself differently; stood as if she spent a great amount of time doing it, straighter than Runa ever was. And the Arcanine looked very serious—a fair match, he seemed, for Manda. Was it possible a human had the same effect of intimidation? Certainly he felt it; perhaps, he thought, that was how she always won. But what was it Runa had said, describing her?

—She used to have a hundred pictures of Red up in her room. He's her idol—he's why she became a trainer.

And now having a gift of ability, granted, but also all the advantage money could buy, all the best-bred Pokémon, she became Indigo League Champion the same as Red—all the people on the platform stared. And that was very well, of course; but once, Runa said, she was just a little girl, looking up at her wall with a dream.

"Hello, Runa," Manda said.

Runa smiled, he saw, and accepted her embrace, but not for long. She never said much of what was between them: different philosophies, was all. Was it such a great thing she kept at odds with her sister, even now they both had what they wanted? It must have been some sort of injustice—what seemed small to them (the rich having different values) so that they expected Runa would forgive them, only acquiesce and accept; but Runa, understanding the matter better, did not forgive but stuck to justice.

Runa congratulated her becoming champion. Had they not spoken since then?

They walked on out of the station, the Arcanine leading ahead. The hotel was a few blocks away, Runa said. This was central Saffron; the sprawl was mostly flat, but the towers here were quite as tall as Goldenrod, only had more space between them. But all that he hardly saw now: as he was blind to nature and landscape, so none of this red city mattered next to Runa, and Runa, he saw, felt tied; didn't touch any of them; thought Manda would judge her as too lenient, too warm, spoiling them with affection.

Her sister looked back more than once. Gaia returned it; he hadn't the nerve.

Manda said, "It's good to see your Pokémon."

Perhaps, he thought, as they crossed the road where all the traffic stopped and, he was sure, half the drivers would miss their signal, leaning to look—perhaps Manda said something very personal; attacked Runa's philosophy, her view of Pokémon; said they were good for battling and that was it. That would explain the things she said about her family. What sort of life did a champion's Pokémon have? They always seemed so grave on the screens, the Charizard and Golduck and Raichu behind her, not to mention this Arcanine who never looked once back at them, never smiled—they had no pleasure at all. This was the style of training, Runa said, that ruined Pokémon! This was the method she wanted to end. And yet they followed, he felt, out on a great limb; for wasn't the point of coming out of Johto to this strange city that they meant to persuade Runa to change, to harden her battlers, whereas for him …

"We're picking up your psychic at Silph Headquarters, aren't we?" Manda said.

Runa said, "Yes, he's coming through Bill. We can go there next."

"Good," Manda said. "Mother and Father arrived in Celadon a few hours ago."

Oh! It was a confirmation, he felt, that everything was falling to pieces: Torus was to protect her, to report, perhaps, and to whom? but had a part in it somehow. How forced was it all? He would be apart from Runa for the first time. Did they threaten to cut her funding, her inheritance if she didn't meet them? But Runa called it an opportunity, something good to come of meeting; just a day, she said, in Saffron City; they would make new friends and have a time.

"It's lucky we happened to be near Goldenrod," Runa said, looking back; Don't worry, she seemed to say. "You know we don't have a set plan."

Manda said, "They don't expect one. They just want to see you. It's been over a year."

Runa waited a moment and said, "I didn't notice."

Dyna gave some sort of snort; but that wasn't right, he thought, when Runa was being rude! For wasn't it rude to say about family? It must have been very unjust, what they did, simply horrible to Runa—all because she turned away from the family's traditions, for what else could it be? She took wild Pokémon; refused to command them; spoiled them rotten, in Manda's view. Perhaps—and this was something he could not believe, but seeing now, with Manda—perhaps Runa had other Pokémon, a whole team in Hoenn; and as her family saw she meant to raise them differently, out of the style, they took them away. To think of stealing Runa's Pokémon! he thought. Was that why she wanted them to stay behind? Was there a chance that, going with her, they may be taken as well? or was that in fact the condition, to stay under guard for judgement? (He moved closer and brushed her accidentally; Runa looked but didn't give her hand.) They couldn't possibly: they belonged to Runa by the law. But they would be apart for one day … and the Pondelores were very strong in Kanto. (But he was absurd—it wasn't true.)

Manda said, "Your Pokémon are well evolved. You must be spending a lot of time in training. Are you entering the Silver Conference?"

Runa said, "I … They're fine. Everyone's training at their own pace. We haven't decided if we'll enter the tournament." The Arcanine looked aside at her.

This was the hotel, he thought, just past the corner. It was forty floors high at least, a great wooden front extending out over red paths—in rain, people would step out of long vehicles right into shelter, he supposed. But from the dramas in the Corner, if he recalled correctly, even for Saffron this must be extravagant; the other two hotels they passed were stone and glass, tall but flush against the street, not with its own kept garden, here in the most expensive part of the city. (Still, there was a Meowth in the bushes, near the ramp to the underground garage.)

"One moment, Nero," Manda said, and the Arcanine stopped at the entrance. "Runa—"

And this was to issue her attack, he thought, as she held back all the time: this was where she said it was amusing to see her untempered Pokémon, but now she must be serious, for Mother, for Father, ought to quit now and reform. And they would make it easy (such rots, all of them): she needn't see their plaintive look, only agree in private and leave it all to them, releasing them into the wilds. Did they think they would get away with it? Didn't they know how Runa felt? For she touched Gaia and looked back to the street where a passing couple stopped to recognise what anyone would think a pair of perfect trainers—one who loved her Pokémon more than anything, and whose Pokémon loved her, and one the Indigo Champion.

Manda said, "I'm impressed is all."

(And didn't Runa tell them, he thought, following Gaia through the door, not to worry?)

But this was the difference, he thought, looking over the lobby, between old and new cities! Surely this sort of natural opulence, it seemed—Saffron being not a void of nature, but its nature rather being this—was unusual by any standard: only stepping off a late-autumn street to find tropical Hoenn plants in a lobby, all red wood and gold fittings, glass and white squares, like what they saw of Saffron itself: the roofs, the haze about the station, the smell of clean rubber, and of running water somewhere nearby (so he felt it), all rejoined in a space where passing over the glass covering of the stream (a stream inside a building!) the floor was so sprawling, so open—how did it all hold up with just a few pillars?—they might fit a camp in the middle and hardly bother anyone, might spot wilders (hoteliers?) living in the foliage who never needed to leave. This was grand human work, he thought; this Rita understood, the only other one who did, taking a real notice of things for the first time since her evolution, while Dyna only zeroed in on an Aguav bush in the nearest brush, and Tanwen folded her arms as if she didn't think anything. Manda looked and the attendant at the desk bowed, began to make a call—only had to walk in, he thought, and things moved for the Pondelores, or was that for being champion? But no wonder Runa preferred camping! A Pokémon could spoil quickly in this.

Now Runa looked, and beamed at them as if she saw something she hadn't realised she expected. She rushed ahead; at the side, through a wood lattice covered in ivy, he saw a flame … And there was Manda's Charizard, waiting to meet them.

But his arms were folded; he looked severely at Runa. Oh, he thought—weren't they old friends? Was he different from what she remembered? Too much time had passed between them; did being champion make one hard, above the need for old friends?

Runa spread her arms and said, "Well, you're shorter than I remember, Polo."

And now the Charizard broke his façade, rather couldn't keep from grinning; lifted Runa under the arms and spun her round, held for far too long a moment and leaned down—six feet tall at least—to press the top of his head against her. And they knew she had a history with other Pokémon, grew up with Manda's team, who knew her as they never could, so many years their senior in friendship—so why, he thought, why should he suddenly feel like shards of ice were sticking in his throat? It was right that other Pokémon were fond of her; it was only fair judgement, purer really than his; it didn't change that he wanted to tip a jug over this Charizard's tail, if he had to watch Runa hanging on his arm and smiling, laughing—kissing his jaw!

"[I don't like him,]" he said, moving behind Gaia.

"[You're a nut,]" she said. "[Why not? She's known him forever.]"

True enough he hatched just a year after Runa, since before she had any memory, and so was always there. As Manda trained the rest of her team, Runa and Apollo the Charmander, the Charmeleon, the Charizard played and bonded. Then perhaps that was the thing between them, he thought: that he, seeing Runa for all her true qualities and lacking any compulsion to order, became a greater friend to her than to his own trainer. Then could a timid Dragonair who, with Runa for only eight months, even pretend to understand her when the great bulk of her life was a mystery, and there were old friends in her memory like this—the number-two Charizard in the world, after Red's—to make such latter-day companions as him seem ridiculous?

Manda didn't look at her; she turned to them and said, "Everyone—this is Apollo. He'll be your chaperon till tomorrow evening. In fact, they've come a long way, and they set off early this morning. Why don't you show them up, and Runa and I will be off?"

* * *

"[Stop worrying so much,]" Gaia said. "[Look, this bed is big enough for a Snorlax. Why don't you lie out and so will I?]"

How they could sleep when Runa was gone, in a whole other city, he didn't know. Tanwen took the lounge bed, Dyna the couch, Rita the armchair, and now Gaia pulled him to the bedroom and told him not to fret, that she would smother him in pillows if he didn't calm. (He blurted out his worry that perhaps Runa had a team before, and she said he was silly; but, she said, if it worried him they'd get the truth from Manda's Pokémon.) So he lay, she the other side, in Runa's empty bed.

Didn't they care for her? he thought; or was this only what others felt, those who lacked his sickness, that Runa may be miles away and it didn't affect them? It was nearly black out. The days set later in the west, said the programme; there was probably still a little light in Celadon. Suppose he fell asleep before Runa?

Gaia turned under the blanket, let her feathers flip out, and laid her head on the pillow. "[Sleep,]" she said, "[do.]"

There was no point in getting under if he would only break into a sick sweat. This was larger than any room they ever had, here at the top of the tower. Did Runa know? She treated them, of course, but she didn't want them to spoil. The bed's mattress was that special sort of foam that moulded to fit a shape pressing into it; which, he thought, didn't work with Dragonair, being made of light or whatever lighter substance that made them weigh so little. Even Dragonite were too light for their size: that was how they could fly with such little wings. Really they ought to be over twice as heavy—a Steelix too. Plenty of Pokémon were like that, he thought, turning over: lighter than they ought. And there were humans as tall as a Charizard who weighed more, even though they looked smaller, and yet a Charizard could lift and spin a human easily even with those little arms.

* * *

Evolution hadn't helped a bit. It was ten times worse now, ten times harder to bear. All those Pokémon, he saw, who could fondly touch a human's face, cry out some simple exclamation unaffected! What did a Dratini know about warmth? Back then he only wanted to please her, to make proud, to be held and wanted. If she looked it was only a little flush. Now these waves of craving fantasy came any time and without the least notice. Just to be in a room with her was intolerable. She only had to flip her hair and then, so he imagined, all the rest vanished. Won't you come? she'd say. She would be perfectly willing; she would place both hands on his face; she would wrap his spike in cloth. She would kiss his cheek, his nose, until all sensation boiled away, and wrapping her arms around him … But the pillows were a poor representation. He pushed them away, laid the last over his head.

* * *

The refrigerator had noodles, rice balls, some packets he took to be vegetable wraps, sauces, and several juices, none of them aprijuice.

The fruit basket had apples, bananas, lemons, oranges, pitayas, a bag of miniature limes, and a cultured watmel.

The berry basket had lums, leppas, pechas, razzes, aguavs, liechis, and a lansat in a tied mesh bag.

Runa said that wines and spirits were never good for a Pokémon.

* * *

It was to defile her, he thought, to even think such things: that could not be love, to imagine Runa overwritten, all her character turned into something dependent, wanting nothing but to be his and all the rest forgotten. That scene on the train—terrible! Torus would have thrashed him, tied him up with telekinesis. How did he tolerate it? He was quite aware one moment, quite controlled; and then he was out of a daze, out from staring into space, Dyna calling him disgusting—drooling over some fantasy of cake, she said.

* * *

"[Euh? What? Shadow?]"

"[I said, Do you think Runa misses us?]"

"[What kind of … ? Go to bed, you gump.]"

"[But what if they don't want her to come back? What if they try and stop her? What if they give her better Pokémon?]"

"[D'you hit your head and get confused? Runa loves us, you know? She's back tomorrow. Go sleep with Gaia.]"

"[But, but what if—]"

"[Get faint. Ask Tan if you need help.]"

* * *

He ought to be locked up again, thrown away in a ball. More than once he nearly did something, moved to nuzzle or rub her, something outrageous she could not possibly mistake, and at a mere look—a look and a smile! What ought to matter least, a glance, a stroke, seemed to overwhelm him, her character becoming secondary. Yet what was anyone if not their character? To crave only skin was base and wanting. Runa acted to help others get their wants: that was putting others ahead. If he really loved her he would do the same. She deserved so much better than him … Her family was right to want him away.

Gaia said he would be too tired to catch breakfast if he didn't sleep, and she pulled him under to stop his turning, laid her head on his body to keep him still, fell right asleep. If anyone deserved Runa, he thought, it was Gaia, always so relaxed and controlled and focused. He laid his head on the pillow. Perhaps as a Dragonite he would get a control, a focus. That was their ability, they said: an inner focus. He wouldn't flinch from protecting Runa, then, from keeping guard. He only had to last so long. The sky was starting to turn blue.

* * *

But I feel a warmth for you, Runa said: she kissed his neck and flew away. Fire was her favourite type: she had Tan and Reet and Polo. Unless he was the world's number-two Dragonite she couldn't properly love him. He followed after her tail; wherever he turned it blinded him. So she felt warmly for him; but if she ever touched before he learned to control himself his waters would snuff it. Won't you stop? she said. But he could not: a wind was behind him and he couldn't stop creating waves, seemed to press faster forward on them as if on a surf, as if through him the water propelled itself faster, and it began to swallow him, and he was losing his grip, and now it was about to touch her tail.

This is why I surf with Gaia, she said.

* * *

Chapter continues in next part


	8. Level 35 - Saffron (Scene 11)

**Link to PDF version in profile**  
Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter continues from previous part (Level 35, Scenes 1-10)

* * *

That was light halfway up the wall, he thought. Was it because the tower was so tall? The horizon was farther, higher up.

But Runa, he thought—oh, where was Runa? He threw off the cover— But Runa was in Celadon City. That was it; he was to wait in bed until she came.

He settled again. Gaia was gone, he saw. That was fine—she needn't stay just for him—she was probably out talking to the others.

He lay and listened. Dyna would be up and knocking things about, Tanwen keeping quiet, Rita drawling about something or other … Nothing. Suppose they left without him? Suppose they all ate and laughed downstairs, and Runa returned, and thought he didn't care, only wanted to sleep and lie about, taken in by luxury?

The lounge was empty, he saw, all the pillows strewn about. So they went and left him, went to breakfast—he did not even know the way! But the door now produced a beep: the lock undid itself: the handle slowly turned and he rushed forward—there was Gaia, dropping the card key as he surprised her.

"[You're up finally,]" she said. She pressed the card with her nose, lifted and snatched it in the corner of her mouth. "[It took you so long to fall asleep, we only left you.]"

"[O— Oh!]" he said. He bothered them all, only laying about.

"[Are you hungry?]" she said. "[They're holding breakfast for you.]"

Everyone held up by him! he thought, all the staff and the champions. "[I'm sorry,]" he said. "[I didn't— Sorry!]"

"[Oh, hush,]" she said, passing into the room, observing the mess, inspecting him. "[You look terrible … You've got bed-eye. Why don't you use the shower? You don't want to look sloppy to the champions.]"

She was right, of course. It was like Runa to behave just the same whether on the roads or in a rich hotel, neither dressing nor acting differently, but the humans and even the Pokémon put on shows. When he finished daubing on the towel rack he saw Gaia had put away the blankets and pillows: To save the humans work, she said.

The hotel was remarkably suited for Pokémon, he thought: the corridors were all very wide and the lift, according to the sign, was Metagross standard with two sets of buttons, one nearer the floor, all of them very large. They lay on the floor and Gaia pressed the bottom one—all the way from the top, he saw, forty-four stories. Some part of the lobby, he thought, some little spot for cakes and tea he'd see was set up for them, where he would only count the hours till Runa.

"[Rita's in bliss,]" Gaia said. Of course she was. Gaia looked but that was all.

In the lobby people stopped, seeing them: a rare sight perhaps, two Dragonair flying out a lift, one of them pink. Would they be out in the open where people looked? But it was just here, Gaia said, a room right off the lobby. A human attendant waited at the door, held the handle as they approached—actually bowed—shut it behind them.

Room was not quite the word: he had seen houses that were smaller! Had they shut off all this, some reception hall meant for a hundred, at least, some major function, just to let them lie about and wait? And that wall was only stone pillars and glass, opened right out into a garden with ponds and red-leafed trees that, by the look of it, had to be fully enclosed by the hotel—all for them, it was. But this was too much, he said—Runa would have balked and refused it—and there was Rita reposing on a couch, or was she sleeping? and there Dyna was inspecting the cushions, and there, Tanwen walked around the garden. And there on the nearest couch was the Charizard Apollo, with an enormous pot of tea; and beside him was Diana, the Raichu, who they only saw a minute before with Apollo; and that had to be Jeanmarie, the world number-one Golduck, who was napping when they arrived yesterday, Apollo had said, and now was napping on a reclining chair.

Gaia said, "[Not exactly the Corner, is it?]"

He said, "[It's too much. It— How much is it costing?]"

"[Nothing,]"—Apollo said it, leaning over and laughing. "[Or a loss, rather! Don't you know they own the place?]"

The Pondelores were wealthy, he knew, owned entire valleys, bred thousands of Pokémon; yet camping on the Golden Coast, even staying in hotels in Olivine and Cianwood, always it seemed abstract, just an explanation for Runa's resource. Hardly anyone was rich, she said; one ought to know what real living was. (Was it real living, that way?) Once or twice a human, recognising Runa, accused her of it, that she didn't know real life. How horrible to say! But supposing the boy who said it, he thought, had imagined something like this room, had seen kitchens on hold for Pokémon, a Ninetales or Golduck dozing on a fancy chair, then it was not so surprising—no less to be denounced, of course, as Runa wasn't that way at all, but a little more understandable why people called the Pondelores different, not so out of nowhere as it seemed on the beach at Cianwood before Stefan came over, as Runa only stood embarrassed holding two halves of watmel, and the boy with his net stood and pointed and said that she didn't know real life: this was what he saw.

Now Apollo and Diana invited them to coil in some armchairs near their sofa; they waited for breakfast (the others going ahead with it, he heard) so that he and Gaia would have conversation; the champions, he thought, spending time with them on their vacation. If he was not with Runa was there any chance it happened? She said they would make friends—they would think he was a waste of her time! But Gaia was perfectly relaxed, as always: she at least would make an impression.

A Blissey with little lace sleeves blew through a set of double doors and said, "[Yes! Do relax and grow comfortable! You will be taken by the pleasure.]"

She stopped beside him; she looked very close; he couldn't help but quiver.

"[Sweet,]" she said, and looked at Gaia, who looked at her. "[… Sour. Breakfast is preparing presently. If there is anything you require,]"—she pointed her white sleeve—"[you will inform me!]" And then she left, swept through the double doors.

Perhaps this was how they did things in other regions, he thought. Was she a servant tending the champions, one of Manda's extended crew? He couldn't possibly ask.

Diana said, "[That's Maria. She's always bothering the staff. She can't relax unless she's got a hand in things.]"

Just as well he hadn't, he thought. He wouldn't speak at all unless they wanted it. Apollo asked how they slept, how their breakfast was and so on, and Gaia answered. And they were the champions, of course, very devoted, very professional, beyond all possible question; yet now, he thought, however hard they seemed on the screen, now they were only like normal Pokémon: Manda's training didn't show.

In hardly minutes a crew of human waiters rolled a table into the room with four large, lidded trays. They had been to restaurants with Runa that catered to Pokémon, but this was different: whole menus prepared to match their favourite flavour, placed on tripods before their seats! Even Gaia had to look and twist in surprise. The man lifted the lid: unsweetened meringues, thin tarts, a salad with sour dressing: all the things she liked, like that. And she looked at him; this was to be properly spoiled, she meant.

But his—oh! far too much it was! It was at least twice the size of Gaia's: sweets and pastries, and fruit parfait; a blended drink of what seemed to be cream and pitayas (how did they know?); heaps of cake and unidentifiable tarts all in sizes for a Dragonair to bite, and a stack of what looked like miniature waffles—all things that would spoil him entirely, quite outside what he allowed himself. He couldn't look at it; he ought to apologise, he felt, even if he never asked for such rotten luxury. Runa said not to worry, that it was only two days and to enjoy it (she didn't think of this!) but still he must resist for Runa; and yet they made such effort to make it, and didn't Runa always say not to waste things? (Still, he would have a fraction of it; he would skip lunch.)

Apollo looked past his own tray, a large bowl of porridge with some off-colour drinks and hard breads; he twiddled his claws and said, "[Oh, ah, let me know if you can't finish that, hm?]" For wasn't it fair, he said to Diana, that on vacation they had a break from every regimen? Diana frowned and snapped her protein tart. Manda would be after him, he thought, for corrupting her champions.

At length the stories began, Gaia asking how they came to be: a precocious Charmander, born on the Hoenn estate and given to Manda, her first Pokémon; the road in Viridian Forest where she spotted a quality and caught Diana the Pikachu; a Psyduck with a splitting headache wandering indoors which, hardly days later, saw her on the team, apparently proving perfect. Gaia and Apollo did most of the talking, seemed on a similar wavelength; Diana interjected now and then to correct Apollo, it seemed, when his spirits carried him away; he only ate and listened. All three, they heard—Apollo, Diana, and Jem, or Jeanie, they called her—evolved in the same few weeks, Nero the Growlithe coming along much later. And there was Runa, in all that, living in the same places; they could tell of things she never said, what she never volunteered.

"[But we're boring you,]" Apollo said, taking one of the waffles from his dish—"[I know that! Why don't you tell us about Runa? I mean, she must have had fun, I imagine, finally having things her own way!]"

And that, he thought, pausing from his dish, was a curious thing to say. Gaia seemed to think the same, looking at him. This Charizard and Raichu were two of the greatest battlers in the world; they might get their advice in anything, Runa's journey, her technique or potential, had now an invitation to discuss the method at length; yet even Gaia only wanted secrets about Runa. For lately she agreed, when he said that in all these months they knew hardly a thing about her.

—We'll see if they won't tell us tomorrow. (But it was nothing, she had said—do sleep.)

Gaia licked the sour dressing and said, "[Runa has a little brother, doesn't she? Is he going to be a trainer too? If he's like Runa, I mean.]"

"[Oh, no,]" Apollo said. "[He's got a Torterra of his own, but he's not interested—that's all right! It's not for everyone, is it? Not like Runa—she's always been for Pokémon. Say, is she still working on that little book of hers? Her manifesto, she called it, on Pokémon.]"

Gaia said, "[She's mentioned it. She says she'll rewrite it from scratch with Torus.]"

"[But isn't that fine?]" Apollo said. He smiled at Diana; Diana looked at him. "[Well, I think it's fine. There's no one else like Runa, that's for certain. You're lucky to have her!]"

And Gaia waited and said, "[Because we're not her first Pokémon.]"

For an instant he thought he would choke, cough up his tart—he didn't think she'd just say it! But she held her head a little high—she was bluffing, he knew, trying to play it off as a thing they knew all about, and he spoiled it!

Apollo looked at Diana for a long moment, and said:

"[Www-where'd you get that idea?]"

Diana kicked him on the foot. But she couldn't blame him, the Charizard seemed to say, looking at her.

"[She didn't leave for Johto until she was almost fourteen,]" Gaia said. "[Manda started training when she was seven, and you said Runa couldn't wait to follow. She was hardly doing nothing for seven years. She had other Pokémon, didn't she?]"

To think Gaia called him clever, simply because he watched a lot of shows! Was this a thing Gaia wondered for a while? Even centred entirely on Runa he missed such details. Oh, but it was a mistake to tell her, he thought. Other Pokémon, another team taking her affections, getting close to Runa when he was still an egg, possibly, planting roots no effort could replace … this he didn't need to hear at all.

Apollo looked uncomfortable. He twisted in his seat, looked at Diana who glared at him, said at last, "[Now look … You won't get any more from me. This fellow won't cross Runa for anything.]"

But then it was true: Runa had a team before them, other Pokémon she loved and then left somehow. Other Pokémon she carried, travelled the routes for years perhaps, longer than them, until somehow they were separated, and it was too painful, too hard a memory, that she never said a word. That or something else went wrong and now they were all recovered, all waiting for her; actually present in Celadon, being given back. Your future champions, her parents said, now that you can handle them.

"[But she'd never abandon them,]" Gaia said. "[Did her family take them away? Why's she in Celadon with all you watching us?]"

He felt sick; Gaia looked at him. It had to be the family. Runa argued with them even presently, fought to keep her new Pokémon, tricked to come by those convinced she couldn't handle them. Tanwen was the test, and as she turned out vain and wanting, wasn't happy at all—; and as she had been excited to meet them, had a chance, she thought, to get approval and lift the threat of losing them, but only found, while she was apart in Celadon—

He was about to faint, he knew: the white was swimming in front of him. Gaia looked and dropped a pile of sour tarts on his dish, which he bit whole: anything to keep awake, she meant, to calm.

Apollo looked shocked. This a Pokémon of Runa's, he must think—fainting on the spot! The Charizard clasped the balls of his tail and said, "[D— Don't be like that! It's nothing whatever like that! It's nothing to fret about at all.]"

Diana leapt to her feet and said, "[It was her Pokémon that did it, all right? The family's proud of her. They're happy you're doing well! It's was her Pokémon couldn't cut it.]"

And that was hardly better! he thought; for now a line of brutes passed before him, each more rash and violent than the last, who were meant to be Runa's first but, owing to their completely rotten natures, not even she could endear them. What little Pokémon had she raised that evolved into a monster? who, after all her tender care, grew up not to love but abused her, even struck her—Runa, attacked by a Pokémon so all the rest had to save her! But the faintness passed; he believed Apollo really meant it, stroking his tail; all a terrible misunderstanding, the Charizard seemed to say.

"[Now listen,]" Apollo said, straightening up, for he seemed committed now, even if it breached with Runa, to calm them entirely. "[You know Runa's not like other trainers—she's gifted, I say, how she understands us. But, you know, it also depends on the Pokémon, doesn't it? Turns out some fellows would rather just do as they're told. Then if Runa only wants her Pokémon to be themselves, they don't know what to do: they can't accept it. So the training fails, and Runa—it's not fair, I know—Runa gets the blame, because after all she wasn't following her family's method. Then after a while they let her try again and travel the routes traditionally, and here you are! So you see it was all a … suspended persuasion, wouldn't you say? Because given how you've grown up under her, I guarantee they're all persuaded.]"

But Gaia was not persuaded, he saw. "[Is that it?]" she said. "[They took her Pokémon away because they weren't performing?]"

"[No,]" Apollo said. "[I mean,]"—and the Charizard glanced at the Raichu, who was looking very hard at him—"[I mean, silly as you'll find it, I'm sure, maybe Runa could have handled it better, too. Now I've known Runa all my life. She's always been a very, very sweet girl. But when her family said, Oh, you're too liberal with Pokémon … they have a point. Back then, Runa would let her Pokémon go practically wild before an exercise or a drill … so it's not such a great surprise if they started thinking they didn't need a trainer. Well, that's what happened—don's honour. She was so much against the family's old style that she went overboard, and her Pokémon didn't trust her—and don't you think that was daft of them, dismissing Runa? She was only still young and growing up! Now she's far wiser, and her family's proud, so don't you even slightly worry. It's like you say: you're lucky it happened, and now you've got a wonderful trainer for life! Isn't that enough you'll let it go forgotten?]"

"[Yes, let's,]" Diana said, kicking the Charizard's foot and slumping back. "[You're such a gossip, Polo. Imagine Manda was here!]"

"[Yes, well,]" Apollo said, settling back with his bowl—all full of cake, he saw. "[What Manda doesn't know won't hurt her.]"

These champions, he thought, weren't simply on vacation; they relaxed between bouts of disciplined training, yes, but they had another task to fulfil: to report whether Runa had slipped into her previous failure, her family thought it, and gave her Pokémon too much liberty so that they spoiled. And the report was good, Apollo said; but still he nearly fainted at a few words like the most pathetic wretch, and made Runa look like she oughtn't to have them.

"[Anyway,]" Apollo said, "[what's all this worry spoiling inside you? As far as they're concerned it's all in the past, now. So don't worry!]" He laughed; for they were absurd, he seemed to say, if they thought once more about it. "[And do you know, I envy you? I can't think of a finer thing than routing with Runa, no title hanging round your neck. It's been—how long?—five months since the championship and thanks to you this is the first real break we've had. Our victory lap was the press circuit, heh!]"

Diana frowned; Gaia frowned, but turned away. Now the moment passed, he thought: they would get nothing else about Runa.

The conversation moved on. Diana asked how it came to be there were two Dragonair in Runa's team, and Gaia described the Game Corner, the journey over the routes to Cianwood and back and then, following the coast, to Goldenrod and Saffron. Was that all it took to summarise? he thought—eight months with Runa like that? Apollo tried to involve him, but what was there to say Gaia couldn't? If Runa had a team still in Hoenn … But did Runa mean to become a Dragon Master? they asked. They had no idea, nor what it was. (That was something he missed on the screens.) Runa said she didn't think of Pokémon as different types, but the team, it had to be said, was forty percent dragon. Was there such a thing as a human who, by closeness to dragon natures, developed such a connection to them they understood the other quite fluently? Perhaps they would meet Clair in Blackthorn City, Apollo said; there was a lady Dragonite there who may advise them. But Gaia said it was perfectly fit, having two Dragonair, as they complemented each other: she was the heavy hitter, the sweeper with special attacks, and he the reliable backup, neither having ever fallen in battle. And how could she talk like that? he thought, making them out like a big thing, a rising force, and in front of the champions!

Apollo said, "[Of course when you evolve it really starts. Two Dragonite in a team—well, well! That's not a weak thing.]"

And Gaia looked aside, as if to say she would keep speaking for her other Dragonair, if he wouldn't, but he really ought to speak. "[Shadow's convinced he'll never make it.]" she said.

"[Is that true?]" Apollo said, looking at him. "[Don't you think you'll be a grand battler, a great big Dragonite as you'll be?]" The Charizard laughed as he looked away. "[Well, battling's not for everyone. Maybe you'd like the big estate. Two friendly dragons, one shiny … plenty of space, you know.]" And Diana told him to give it up, and Gaia, he thought, turned red—as if they would wander about in the wilds again, after Runa! she meant. She looked at him; and by a sort of solidarity, he felt, as the Charizard grinned and brushed his chin and asked the Raichu what was the matter, he felt he would somehow defend her by leaving.

He said, "[When is— Oh.]"

But he lost track entirely: the dish was nearly empty, just a few bits of fruit and mess after what Apollo took. That was the tightness in his wrap: gorging on sweets and distending when Runa was gone just a day. Didn't Gaia say not to be an embarrassment around the champions?

Gaia said, "[We'll skip lunch, all right?]" Apollo took his dish and said he'd clean it for him, if he didn't tell Maria.

Not that he wanted to be near others, he thought, stretching out, but he ought. The other girls were in the garden, sitting separately; Rita had gone out to lie on the wood, as the autumn sun was still high enough to pass the interior wall, while Dyna snuffed around the bushes and Tanwen sat out on the stone. (They wouldn't want him near.) The Golduck, Jeanmarie, was still sleeping on the chair. He wouldn't bother her; but Runa would be some hours yet, he thought, so lacking anything else to do, he would wait for her to wake, that at the very least he spoke to all the champions. As Runa asked that he make friends, he would lie on the sofa near. There was a pitcher of some bright blue drink next to the Golduck, with a chunk of ice that matched the shape as if it thawed in from the sides, which once or twice she stirred from her nap earlier to turn and take a sip.

Presently she yawned and looked at him. But wasn't it too forward, he thought, laying near before they were introduced? She scratched herself and didn't speak. (It was a mistake to leave the bed at all, he felt.)

She said, "[You're that Dragonair.]" Quite a mistake, he thought.

She said, "[You like ice cream?]"

"[Um,]" he said, "[yes.]"

She said, "[So you like cream.]"

"[Um,]" he said. Didn't she see his dish?

She took the pitcher, poured a glass and, with a blow of white breath, refroze the thing entirely. "[And you like ice,]" she said.

Perhaps he made a noise; across the room, Diana said, "[Don't scare him, Jeanie! He's Runa's.]"

"[Oh, that's no fun,]" Jeanmarie said, sitting up and stretching, scratching. "[I have a way with dragons, is all.]"

"[A … a way?]" he said.

"[She's a real genius for ice,]" Apollo said. "[Didn't you see us in the final?]"

And he had to get out of bed, he thought, and be a fool for the double-league champions! Of course they all saw the championship matches, a close thing as well, everyone fainting but Jeanmarie and Apollo, who never fainted once in their careers—knocked out half Lance's team by herself, her signature Ice Beam, and bashed up the number-one Dragonite in the world for Apollo to finish : a genius, they called her, with a power greater than if she had the type.

"[But I'm fond of dragons,]" she said—she, the destroyer, sitting now on his sofa and holding his tail—"[really. It's just we battle so often, often it's a cold thing. You look surprised. You think it's odd we're not like Nero. He's the odd one. He hatched leering.]"

They were none of them as he expected, he thought; and was it very wretched that he wished, in fact, they were a little harder? Runa's method was entirely for Pokémon and their dreams, so that they might be very happy, and yet her team (himself, of course, excluded for other reasons) would hesitate to say, if one asked them, that they were completely happy. Yet even though Manda only aimed at battling, ordered them about, so all her Pokémon seemed content. Ought not those Pokémon who were most controlled be least happy, and those with the greatest liberty be happiest?

"[I don't—]" he said, and paused. He mustn't be the fool again. "[It— It's just really big you can do Manda's sort of training. I'd never manage.]"

"[Really big!]" she said. "[Maybe it's just Manda's direction. I don't have much of an ethic—nor Apollo.]"

"[What's that?]" Apollo said, leaning back on his sofa.

"[Just your predilection for a good lay over battle,]" she said. "[Shadow says he couldn't cut our training.]"

"[Oh, I don't know,]" Apollo said—"[with a little help, he might! I wouldn't mind a Dragonair about. Maybe you'd think about swapping a while, and—no—maybe I'll swap with that Typhlosion a bit, eh, try it a while with you and Runa? You wouldn't mind another lady, would you, ladies?]" And Diana produced a spark, he saw, right between her cheeks; the Charizard laughed and rubbed his neck.

Jeanmarie looked back at him and said, "[So she's been using her method on you: no commands. How is that?]" She leaned closer. "[I mean Manda's hard, yes. We train ten or twelve hours a day. It's how they've always done it, _les Pondes_, _la première famille de Pokémon—plus de champions_, after all, than any other family. But it's all in moderation—hard work, good rest. That's us. What's it like with Runa?]"

What could he say? he thought. He could hardly enlarge Runa as a trainer when he was speaking to a champion. And weren't Golduck partially psychic? Did she see something inside him? But she only looked at him with mild interest, as like an unusually mottled egg.

He said, "[It's … well, I don't know other training. But if I didn't have Runa—I mean, her way, her, her philosophy … She says it's a trainer's purpose to, to help us do what we want in life, and only battle if it helps. She says to make us happy is what a trainer's for.]"

"[Sounds chill,]" she said; she looked at her hand. "[How are the battles?]"

"[We haven't lost yet,]" he said, "[and we've got two badges! I mean, that's … nothing to you, but it's not bad!]"

And she put on a smile and said, "[It's not bad. But here's a secret: Most teams aren't very good, and gym leaders are only meant to screen out the bad ones. If they kept getting stronger, how could anyone make eight badges for the tournament? There's big business in that. No, they're not supposed to be top tier—they're like Watchogs. They're filters, not supposed to grow, while every one of you can. You'll get your badges, _y'a pas de lézardon_.]"

So he was in the club, he thought, where other trainers and Pokémon were easily put down, and everyone knew secrets and spoke sophisticated dialects—as if the whole thing were planned, the title and everything! He said, "[I … I never thought of it that way. We … We're not really proper battlers, though. I mean most of us battle—we owe it to Runa—but she says not to worry about badges.]"

Jeanmarie stopped smiling. "[Most,]" she said.

Oh, he thought—Diana and Apollo had said nothing, but were they only being polite? It had to seem wretched to a champion that not all of them battled, that Rita only used Runa and became a dead weight. (They didn't need to know about his first few weeks.) He said, "[R— Rita doesn't. But Runa says she doesn't have to to, to grow.]"

Jeanmarie looked away to the garden. "[Are you entering the championship?]" she said.

"[Runa says it's up to us,]" he said. "[We don't really know, yet.]"

She looked a long while, watching the others outside. And as he thought himself forgotten, as he wondered if he might remove his tail and go, she said, "[What.]"

"[I—]" he said. But what did she mean?

As if she was deciding whether to believe a thing, whether what he said could possibly be accurate or he was only joshing her, she looked at him and said, "[That Typhlosion said you only train four hours a day. In eighteen months, you got two badges. And yet she's evolved both you dragons, and all the rest are fully evolved, aren't they?]"

But what did she mean? he thought. "[Torus isn't evolved yet,]" he said.

"[Isn't he coming through Bill?]" she said; and now she was sitting up, he thought, oh, and getting cross for arguing. "[Look—it doesn't matter—what I mean is you don't make sense. Pokémon grow slowly even when they're in the gym every day. She's had you Dragonair, what, six, eight months? And you've evolved. Dragons take years to evolve. Something's gone right—and it's not battling. What is Runa doing?]"

Perhaps it was her only context, he thought, wins and contest; after so long with Manda they thought of nothing else. Was it that Runa treated them differently, and somehow that evolved the energy? Some trainers were very kind to their Pokémon while others treated them like tools; but even the kindest trainers, Runa said, who loved their Pokémon, only thought of them as friends and not as people.

He said, "[I don't know—maybe her training's different, but I don't know. I just know Runa says she thinks of us like humans, and, and she says that's how it ought to be, and that's the best way to, to be close. And that's what makes a good team, she says.]"

Or family, he thought, as Runa really put it; but family seemed a hard word around the Pondelores and their Pokémon. Jeanmarie looked at him a long while, and finally she turned and stood. "[Closer than Manda, you mean,]" she said, taking her drink. And as the Blissey Maria came in and approached the others, she excused herself, and went out toward the garden.

It was all a mistake, he thought, waking up, coming to Saffron City, ever letting Runa leave his side! Didn't she say he might come but, looking at him directly, that he would be very bored, and she would rather he had fun apart? No, he thought, he never ought to have left; he should have stayed with Torus in Goldenrod, come over the network with Bill. But now (how rotten through he was!) he felt a knawing in his gut, even though he stuffed himself already, even though he felt it on his skin: a rotten disappointment to Runa: he wasn't fit to be in their company.

Maria was taking orders, marching about. She said, "[There's something you want—say.]"

He would wash it all away, he thought, as Runa did with a book and a cup of sencha. "[Just a tea, maybe, thank you,]" he said.

The Blissey's eyes seemed to overflow with pleasure; she performed a half spin toward the door. "[Just as Apollo!]" she said. "[I shall double every quantity of gyokuro and cake!]"

No use at all, he thought, as she rushed away, nor could he help it: without Runa he was just a quivering, gnawing rot. He left for the garden; some time in the water, some time alone until she came and held him, would help.


	9. Level 40 - Dark Cave (Scenes 1-3)

**To readers:**

It turns out that when I started posting this, almost two years ago, I wasn't in the right place to finish it soon; and as I further delayed in updating it, I felt worse, and so on, as I'm sure many people have felt similarly. It goes without saying (but I'll say it here) that I'm sorry for disappointing, if I disappointed, by not updating for so long. That said, as of this note _the story is now finished_, short of a the few words I always change when I do audio recordings, all done up to Level 85. You can find link to a** Google Drive folder with chapters ****far exceeding this point in the story** if you wish, both those audio recordings and fancy PDFs; otherwise, I'll be posting here without much thought for days of the week, just not all at once so as not to drown anybody who's trying to keep up, since it clocked out at 253,000 words. After three and a half years' on-and-off effort, I'm quite glad to be nearly rid of this; I can't read the first chapters, now, without cringing, and thinking how I'd write things differently; but perhaps I'd say the same about little notes like this in a few more years—hopefully so, from having gotten a bit better.

(P.S.: If as one of the few followers of this story you've just read this note, and you're wondering whether to launch back into this, possibly rereading everything before for lapse of time—I can only say there are better books to read. Read _Swann's Way_, or _Ulysses_, or both the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. But if you _really_ enjoyed it, well, I won't stop you; and I'll thank you privately, even if I'm too timid to say.)

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 40**

First the rock would cave in. Some loose Graveler rolled away and burst and the ceiling began to fall. At once a confusion, separation, each in a panic trying to run. The rocks divided them from him and Runa. They were too unstable for Gaia to quake through; and Dyna, Tanwen, Rita all suffering injuries needed help at once, and the medicine was in Runa's bag. Torus teleported them out, left him to protect Runa: so he would with all his powers. In the cavern, wilders set upon them left and right, and he fought them off—Runa holding him, telling him to be strong, and he felt nothing, only was brave as she wanted. In a great wave of fire he threw them all back, and, half spent by the effort, Runa lead him to a safe place, near the river, a little alcove behind a waterfall. Under the rock the air took on a stillness, a warmth, as she redressed him with ethers and potions. I'm so proud of you, she said—the perfect dragon. She held him close, said only to rest and wait for Torus. The dampness and coldness made her tired, and soon—

No. There was no waterfall. A horde of Zubat and Graveler chased them; so they fled, ducked into a long alcove, found nothing but a well worn out by seepage: there the others wouldn't find them. Runa couldn't breathe underwater; but he, she said, would have enough for both of them, drawn in as it was through the gills in his nose. There wasn't time to object as she placed both hands on his face, pressed his mouth over hers. It was to save her life; it was necessary, simply giving her the oxygen to live. By her direction he wrapped around her that they wouldn't separate, and they hid in the water for many hours. Eventually Runa motioned upward; and coming out, finding it safe, finding her breath tinctured by his, she lay beside him. You saved my life, she said, holding his head against her. And then as she was sluggish from the cold, as it only now affected her and she began to tremble, he wrapped again, breathed warm air over her. In the pond she had been struggling with her feelings, something up to now she'd felt but had denied. It was a thing she had debated for a long time and only now decided, for now, with such a shared experience, she was beyond seeing any wrong in it: her philosophy, her love of Pokémon, asserted itself, simply extended its reasoning to say it was a good and not a sickness to love them as like humans. So she lost all reservation; so she wrapped her legs and arms around him, laid him against the rock, contacted the maximum amount of skin. So Torus came at length and, seeing no difference whatever in mind between them, no possibility of harm, he twirled his whiskers and told the rest they were well, and nearby, and to make camp for one more night.

But far off a Zubat cried, and Dyna squawked as if to scare it, send it back with her light to the recesses of the Dark Cave. He wiped his nose on his bag's strap. It couldn't be five minutes between his fantasies, he thought. It was Saffron City that did it—all that business. Being apart for just a day, he felt, set up a cascade that now, at the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair, returned again and plunged over him. His insides rotted outward; he became a sort of shell of himself, a shed skin: a Shedini, didn't even have a heart. Runa would leave him and some doctors would cut him open, try to work out why he died at once: there the rot would show, all hollowed out, they said, as if by fire, the last bout of sickness eating him to death.

That he felt a thousand times a day; and now again all full of light, all air, for Runa looked and smiled. He might lead, she had said, if Dyna grew tired, for his flash was improving. But Dyna glared. He looked away.

* * *

They were on a high, he thought—everyone felt it. Things had re-knit together, once again a unified team. Runa had a dream, a plan, she said, one she hoped they'd like but not feel in any way that it bound them. She would form a school where her way of training Pokémon was taught; made a deal about it with her parents, who would fund it if she could first distinguish herself in battling. No one, they said, would take seriously a guru without some title. (Her family didn't understand her.) So they would try for the championship, sisters pitted against each other. Human spars were serious things, not like a bit of training; but Manda didn't mind, Runa said, and it would not get between them. So everyone agreed to try the gyms and the tournament, both Tan and Gaia happy, and Torus—simple enough now that he was an Alakazam, evolved as Bill sent him to the Silph Headquarters, frightfully clever. The psychic rarely spoke to anyone but Runa, least of all to him, who had to be abhorrent company, a sick individual one had to tolerate, Alakazam after all knowing everything.

—Does she want me to? (He needn't battle Whitney, Runa said, unless he wanted.)

—Is this is a question for Runa?

—N— No, I … I don't want to bother her. Can't … can't you just tell me?

—I will relay the question if you ask.

Perhaps a psychic saw such deference to Runa only as a way of getting closer till he made his move, some subconscious plot even he didn't realise; but still Torus told her nothing, he was sure, even though they spoke constantly, even though it surely bore relevance to her philosophy that one of her Pokémon loved her.

At any rate, they were well on the way, now: up to five badges now, only five months since Saffron. For what Jeanmarie said was true: gyms were only meant to block the many, and between the girls and Torus their team appeared to be in the few. The Silver Conference was in eight months, by which time, Runa said, they would have all the badges. Tanwen was never so easy to speak to, now that the team did as she wanted, battled gyms all in a rush, and still hadn't lost a battle. The Typhlosion rededicated herself to the special energy, as the scientists called it, what was present in a Thunder or a Fire Blast, and improved continually—and still Gaia outpaced her. Even without the technical machines (she would learn the whole library some day, she said, just hadn't yet asked Runa) she had to have a range approaching a Dragonite; and then there was that odd glow: the Beam, he knew.

—Did you feel it? Your horn was glowing! Do you feel tired?

—It wasn't it. It won't come until we evolve, probably.

But she had grown so far, he thought, so far from the Corner! She seemed happier than she had ever been, spent time with him outside battling just to talk; spoke less, now, about the future, seemed happy with the moment; told him, in fact, she couldn't imagine doing it without him, when he said she'd accomplish her dream and become the top Dragonite ever. She was bound to evolve any day; she held him and shivered at the thought.

The shadows of the stalactites above waved back and forth with Dyna's tail. The Dark Cave needed more than lightning to navigate; and as they could hardly see without her, she was pleased only to light up the battles. It made her first in the team, she said: the three-way contest between Gaia, Tanwen, and Torus was over, for without her they lost at once. That was only to irritate Tan; but really, they all knew, she did try less since Gaia and he learnt electricity.

—Don't get all smart. (The bag of marshmallows had split as she said it, scattering over Rita.) You'll never be good at sparks as me and don't forget! I'm still carrying this team.

—But of course. (The marshmallows were toasted as they fell off Rita.) After Tanwen and Gaia and Torus and Shadow there's just no other guiding light but you: we'd be lost entirely.

—And you're're never help Reet so shush up! Fire's even uselesser with all these dragons.

Rita, as she put it, had dabbled—tried sparring for a while with Tanwen and Dyna which, being that she neither won nor appeared to take them seriously, the Typhlosion said she only contrived to amuse herself until they went to Hoenn, and the Ampharos that they were no fun. But he knew that Rita considered it seriously, started using fire more often, exercised herself, made as if to frighten off that Zubat. Yes, he thought, weren't things improving? The last months, he felt, were like a stretch of soft grass in a rocky trail: things may get rougher ahead, of course, nearer the tournament (didn't all roads?), but for now all was well, or as well, he thought, pulling up again the slipping bag, as it had right to be. To let his own condition keep from feeling happiness for others was wretched, and weren't they happy, Runa most of all? They were all quite relaxed and jolly, so what about him? These were the days to remember, he thought. From here it might go either way, either succeeding in the tournament or, as was really more likely, the title escaping, the team failing or worse, so that Runa lost her parents' backing. But whatever the case, he felt, these nights on the routes and in the Dark Cave would be the warm memories beginning every dream.

* * *

It was odd—perhaps they didn't see it—but the farther they were from civilisation, he thought, the happier Runa became. In the deepest, coldest part of the Dark Cave, miles from any human, she smiled and laughed more than usual. They all had abundant supplies, now that each could carry it; they were ahead of pace in the gyms, so what was there to worry about? She conferred more and more with Torus; touched them constantly (only he would notice); let out things about her past. She described her book on Pokémon—just some silly notes, she said, had to be worked over entirely, but really, he thought, it was something quite profound. _The Equality of Pok__émon_, one section began; _On the Trainer as Guardian_, went another. Now that Torus was helping her it was bound to become an important philosophical treatise, and she wrote up new outlines every week, redrew sections and parts: here, a set of laws to protect Pokémon from neglect and abuse; there, a mission statement for the school.

—Torus calls this part _On the Universality of Mind_.

And Runa, this wonderful girl (for never in over a year had she fallen short of it, never ruled out the sort of genius he saw in the Corner), she wrote over it and expanded with perfect understanding, where he could not follow half a sentence of Torus's technical writing. Runa would discuss at length any part of it if he showed an interest—but, he imagined, Torus would look and stare right through him, as if he directly saw some secret purpose to his thinking that even he did not know in getting close to Runa. If an Alakazam thought something was true, didn't it have to be? Torus had to know, at any rate, that he never chose to have this love of humans. Really, he thought, he was quite controlled. He avoided even touching Runa; she said he wasn't tactile, didn't like it, and that was why he froze and quivered when she held him, when it was all he could do to contain himself as he boiled up inside with lust.

For it had to be lust—though what that was, he thought, he was not quite sure, a word humans used in connection with love and breeding, some equivalent to the breeder's flush perhaps, though he had no want at all to breed, only felt the warmth as she held him. So then perhaps Pokémon didn't feel lust, or at any rate not as humans did, not following, as he understood it, quite the same process. (He would have to investigate it some day.)

At the centre of the great cavern, Runa said they might stop to camp for the night. (He had thought it was only afternoon on the surface; his sense of time was slipping.) Runa unrolled her bag, really almost as large inside as a tent though too small now to shelter all of them, set up the frame in the mouth and hung the lamp to read. Tanwen piled stones together and shot them at length with fire until they were red and kept a warmth; Dyna let down her flash and yawned—and that was camp. He twisted and let his bag slip off.

Dyna spotted it and marched over. "[Okay, open up]" she said—"[I'm famished. It's not easy, walking, you know.]"

And why couldn't they ride the two dragons? Rita had asked. Because they were too heavy, Runa said; because after Torus and Tanwen and Dyna and all their bags, it would be over three hundred pounds per Dragonair, and being only thirty-five and sixty themselves that was impossible to ask.

—O, sixty. How generous.

And Gaia said she was stretching a joke very thin when she went on like that, always about his look; but Runa could sit cross-legged on his back without falling, if she wanted, and wasn't that out of proportion? (He wasn't tactile, she said.) Anyhow Runa said that trainers who kept Pokémon only to fly and to ride were no better than—oh! a drop hit his head. The stalactites were at their longest here in the grotto's centre. It would be difficult to sleep in that, he thought.

Runa opened Dyna's bag of lime marshmallows and handed her the cooking wire. "I have a cave story," she said, sitting down ahead of her reading lamp, so that he could hardly see her face in the stones' glow. "I've been saving it for tonight. But I won't tell it, if it scares you."

That was all Dyna needed to insist; and Gaia would hardly object, and Tan and Rita would make light of him if he reacted. He laid out the apples from his bag. And why should it frighten him? he thought, just a story set in the sort of cave he lived in for years presumably; but he wasn't just trying for attention, as they suggested, when Runa told the one about the Gengar and the trainers in the swamp and he shook so much that she had to hold him.

Runa crossed her legs and said, "This story's about a trainer and his companion, a Pikachu, who once nearly lost each other forever, travelling in a cave just like this one.

"Within the still-living memory of Kanto, these two began their battling journey, both together since before they remembered, and they were so close that the Pikachu was never in his ball. They fought many battles, and won their first badge—the Cascade Badge, in Cerulean City, which the Pikachu won easily. After that, they went into Mount Moon, heading for Viridian City. For three days and nights they travelled deep underground, like we have, and were approaching the heart of the mountain when again they stopped to rest—as we are.

"It was the middle of the night, both in the deepest sleep, when suddenly they were attacked by a horde of Zubat. They were out to steal their food and leave them with nothing—not even a map to get out of the cave! But the Pikachu would have none if it, and fought back with a flurry of Thundershocks, protecting his trainer and the camp. So the Zubat got away with nothing, and that night, they were safe."

Dyna punched the air and sparked, and again her bag of marshmallows fell over; she rushed to gather them in five seconds.

Runa said, "But Mount Moon, if you know the legends, is home to many strange secrets. The Thundershocks attracted a group of Clefairy, who watched the battle. So in the morning, when the Pikachu and his trainer continued through the mountain, they didn't realise they were being followed.

"Now what can a few Clefairy do? What are they likely to try? Well, Clefairy only evolve if they touch a Moon Stone. If you see a Cleffa in the wild, it's almost certain there's a meteorite nearby, and everyone knows Clefairy like to live in mountains and near old impact sites. Some believe that Clefairy are actually extraterrestrial Pokémon, yearning for some other world—just a wild theory, perhaps, but there's no denying they have otherworldy powers. That night, after the two had set up camp and lain down in their sleeping bags, the Pikachu thought he could just faintly hear the softest and sweetest lullaby. But it was just his imagination, he told himself—and he felt, after all, so very, very sleepy.

"Was it morning when the Pikachu woke, or the next night? He didn't know. All he knew was that his trainer's bag was empty."

He couldn't help flinching—Gaia looked at him—but who could blame him, or anyone really hearing the story? Runa carried off by fairies in the night; Runa lost because he didn't protect her! he thought. But he finished the apple; he would not appear flustered.

Runa said, "Suppose you were that Pikachu, and you woke up to find your trainer gone. Had he been abandoned? Had his most faithful friend gone and left him? But the camp and the rest of it was still there—only his trainer was missing, out of sight anywhere in the whole cavern. But then he could only be in danger, thought the Pikachu. Had the Zubat returned and somehow carried him away? He started looking everywhere in a panic. He ran for hours, backtracked through the tunnels, returned again, explored the entire edge of the cavern, as great as this one or greater. There wasn't a trace, a hope remaining, he thought—his trainer carried away in the night, never to see him again!

"It was just as he was thinking this was it, that he had lost his only friend, when in the distance near the cavern's wall something strange stood out. As he searched he had passed a glassy pond, so clear he could see to the bottom, so that he knew his trainer hadn't fallen in—and now from its direction there came an eerie glow, a green and blue light, now fading, now rising again. As he ran toward it, he saw the pulses quicken, growing stronger. And when he reached the water's edge … he couldn't believe it. The water was only an illusion, a distraction for wandering Pokémon, and now, as the Clefairy were distracted by their work, they let the image slip. Down below was a vast chamber, and in this chamber stood a giant Moon Stone shaped like an Omanyte fossil, surrounded by a whole army of Clefairy, and beyond them the legs of an enormous spaceship, reaching up far past the rim. And the Clefairy were chanting, and walking around the stone, waving their hands—and lying on top of the stone was his trainer, still sleeping.

"Do you suppose the Pikachu thought they were up to any good? His trainer wasn't tied up, but they seemed to have him in a trance, as if he wanted to wake but couldn't. The stone was swirling different colours underneath him, the source of the green and blue light, and it let out a low, rumbling hum. It wasn't right at all, the Pikachu thought. So as the illusion had slipped, he went in—carefully down the edge of the chamber, down toward the great stone, hiding in the shadows. How, he thought, was he going to get his trainer out of there, past so many Clefairy? He didn't know, except that he had to try."

She paused, and atop her rock Rita batted her tails, and pretended, he thought, that the story did not affect her, when yet even Tanwen seemed flustered. For would they be willing to do that, he saw them thinking, run up against a whole army for Runa? He wasn't brave, but if there was anything, he thought, that would defeat every fear, wasn't it to save the life of Runa?

"But if all this sounded strange," Runa said, leaning forward, "let me tell you what happened next. You'll laugh—you won't believe it. But that Pikachu swears to this day it's so, and you'd better believe him, because he became one of the top battlers in the world, so if there was any other explanation, he'd know. For what he saw, as he climbed down, was that his trainer's body started to glow like the Moon Stone itself—and as he just reached the bottom, and was looking over the last rock between him and the Clefairy, he saw his trainer beginning to rise, floating just above the stone's surface. And his clothes were getting looser, because his body, the Pikachu saw, was beginning to shrink. This is the truth that Pikachu swears: his trainer was transforming into a Pokémon."

Dyna fell off her rock. But was it possible? he thought—had such a thing ever occurred? It couldn't be … Runa was only telling. She looked at each of them and said:

"And that, the Pikachu decided, was at once a wonderful and terrible thing … and not one he thought his trainer wanted, however much closer they may become. So the Pikachu shot a Thunderbolt across the chamber, into the spaceship, and its engines started right up. All the Clefairy scrambled and broke apart, running for the ship, and by the time the Pikachu reached his trainer on the stone—which was now just a normal rock, smooth like a dome—the spaceship teleported away in a great flash. Whatever they had been doing was broken, and his trainer was back to normal. And when he woke, he didn't remember a thing about it, and only asked how they had gotten so far from camp. And since that day, any time a trainer finds themselves lost and without any memory as to how they got there, they call it a case of the Clefairy."

Was that the end of it? he wondered. Nobody said anything. Then Runa leaned back and said, "But here's a thing to wonder: What would you have done? If I was being transformed into a Pokémon, would you let it happen, or not?" But she was smiling, he saw, and wasn't serious.

Rita sniffed and turned away; and now, he thought, they would pretend it was an overwrought story with a flimsy point, because it excused them for feeling affected. Torus turned away and began to meditate. Did he believe that Runa made it up? She wasn't above claiming truth for the sake of drama. It couldn't be, he thought; it was impossible, turning humans into Pokémon, or perhaps turning a Pokémon human? But a Pokémon Runa didn't feel right at all—that was like a reduction of her powers. They would be more alike, perhaps; there would be nothing unnatural in it, then, he and the Dragonair Runa; but something repulsed in him at it, something shuddered, and felt out of place. And it would be the end of her dreams, of raising them, of bringing her philosophy to humans. It would come to no good at all—and he might have shown it to her, looking up, that he would want her just as she was; but he saw Gaia, who looked at him, as if she thought—oh! But he'd finished the whole bag of apples, in his nerves.

Runa said, "Anyway, there aren't any Clefairy in the Dark Cave. Let's go to sleep—good night, everyone."

They began to wrap up, arranged their bags; and at once he felt bitterly cold, as if the cave's air had just caught up with him. He spent most nights apart, of course, didn't trust himself near Runa now, but tonight, he thought, it seemed intolerable, and how many Zubat had they chased off already who wanted their fruit? They would forgive him wanting company, just for the night. But Gaia was already coiled up in herself, and Rita—well, she wouldn't tolerate him. But Dyna was still moving about, restuffing her bag; and from her, Runa was nearest, close enough he'd feel it if they came and tried to snatch her.

He put his bag by Dyna and said, "[Can I sleep near you?]"

She looked at him and said, "[Ugh. Clammy. Fine—but I get you as a pillow.]"

Gaia raised her head, he saw, as if to say something—but now Runa said his name, and he turned. She was partway out of the bag; she motioned for him to come over. That was all he needed: his heart was racing at once. Why should she call him? Did he look so frightened, after just a silly story?

She had taken off her jacket and thick pants and shoes, sleeping as she did in her old summer-wear with bare feet, sometimes only her swimming clothes, but not tonight. She said, "I didn't mean to scare you, Shadow." (She saw everything, he thought.) "It was just a made-up story Manda once told me. If there's any truth in it, it's just pieces."

What could he say? She read his want to hide his fear more clearly, perhaps, than the fear itself.

"But you're freezing," she said, and touched his nose: he wasn't a bit. "I should have brought extra bags for everyone—I don't know what I was thinking."

That Tanwen's fire would be warm enough, he thought; that any Pokémon, a former cave-wilder no less and thick as he was, would be perfectly comfortable. But he was a caricature of the Pokémon given liberties: with complete freedom, he only followed, and she looked back to check on him. How far did she suspect it, that all the rest could lose themselves in the cave (not so much Gaia; not so much Dyna, perhaps) and his only thought would be that he had Runa's hand more undivided?

Runa said, "Do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

But—he had to check himself—could she have said a more wonderful thing? To lie, to sleep by Runa was all he ever wanted—Torus had to understand—to feel her warmth through the side, perhaps a hand for him to touch, a bit of hair! But that wasn't necessary: the invitation, the affirmation that she wanted him about meant more than any of that. But what would the others think? He hadn't curled up near Runa since the beaches, when everything was in the open and nobody might suspect.

Runa said, "It's okay. I'm happy if you want to."

Then of course he would: he nodded. Torus couldn't criticise if he was only near, if Runa said she wanted it. To spend a night with Runa!

She crept out of the bag. "Here," she said, holding it open—"you go first."

Something dropped in his stomach; he felt numb right to his centre. She didn't mean it … It was a test. Torus told her everything. But Runa only laughed and said, "Come on, it's freezing out here. You can use me for warmth." It was nothing to her to lay with him, some giant pillow. She turned the lamp to shine inward for him; she meant to sit and read a while, to read and stroke him, and that, he thought, being wrapped around her all the way down and up again as was the only way to fit, would burn up every power to resist. He couldn't possibly go in. But Runa was waiting, wondering why he hesitated, moving as if to say she couldn't balance on her toes forever. He had to go in. Fleeing would hurt her more, wouldn't it?—to turn away, as if he didn't love her!

He needed a resort, he thought, ducking his head in, something to smother his senses. To think this was the same bag they all once took shelter in from the rain, all packed around Runa! Now he was so large he hardly fit at all, over twice its length: Runa would have to squeeze between him on both sides. But the smell, he thought—the poffins, the snacks she made and kept inside (—They'll dry out otherwise); the berries; the soap, and the lotions for hair. (It was the most tedious thing, she said, managing hair, though she preferred to keep it; but she envied only having a few feathers to fluff, always soft to touch.) And then of course that unmistakable scent that no human perhaps could detect, which could only be down to Runa—the pheromones, perhaps, as in that documentary, or at any rate something particular to humans. And how was that possible, biologically? But he would burn up without some sort of fall-back. He met the end of his tail at the entrance and pressed his face into the corner; he would breathe as little as possible, bury his face in her bag.

She did not quite squeeze in, there being more space than he imagined, but brushing past him slowly so as not to bother, he felt, she could not possibly affect him further. He bit the edge of the fabric; in a minute he would tear the frame from its socket, pulling away, he imagined. Suppose, he thought (anything now, anything to distract), suppose he bit his tail—would she be alarmed? Would she think it adorable, like a little Aipom sucking his third hand, and stroke his head?

She said, "Do you mind if I read?"

Runa set her book down a moment, pulled up her bag, began to take out clothing, bags of food, all things that may actually turn foul in the air—all to fit the bag beside his head, because he had to look cold and frightened. But from where she figured it—he was not mistaken—Runa meant to flatten the end, that he could share it as a pillow. His head, as would happen, would lay by hers. Then with just a hair on his nose, her foot on his middle, all but rolling over him … Torus had to see, then, that it was for Runa's sake he circled tighter, spread his neck across the opening, until his head was halfway down the bag again, to settle at her hip: for her sake. She laughed and thanked him, restuffed the bag.

What did the others think, seeing such gross behaviour? (That was Dyna snoring, but they must see.) And she settled back, began to lay her hair over him—oh, what was he thinking? The warmth was halfway down his spine already. Did he think at all? She would feel the sweat all over him; everything below his neck felt numb, such a heat now filling him, more than any time she picked him up, with his nose in her hair, and now—What was she doing?

"Here," she said, taking his head, laying it on her middle. "Now you have a pillow too. And I'll read you the draft for a bit, how's that?"

He nodded, couldn't do otherwise if he wanted, he felt. Just now there was not the slightest risk of harming Runa; just now something he'd never felt passed through him, a shiver passing out to the tip of his skin, dissolving every muscle and fibre to jelly. To lie, to melt on top of Runa, he thought, as she held up her writing pad to block the lamp's light and began to whisper, from the first title of the first part the first principles of her philosophy, as all the while her free hand stroked his neck, and her warm toes kneaded against him.

Pokémon are people, she said. The bond between humans and Pokémon, dissimilar in appearance yet sharing the same mind, was the truest example of friendship. All people have a will. Bad habits are corrected by training. It was a way, she said, to control the will, to overcome harmful wants and distractions and most fulfil one's potential. He wasn't afraid any longer, he felt; he would lie and only feel the weight of her head and her hair till morning, and not move once toward her. Runa was a genius—only that could explain it. She was brilliant in other ways, of course, carried out conversation equal to an Alakazam, studied mathematics for fun, but for this there was no question: in this, her view of Pokémon, her understanding was outside common nature. For he was boiling rotten throughout, but with a touch, with what should have most excited his senses, his dragonfire, she calmed him. With just a few words (she turned the page) on the actual nature of Pokémon, equal to humans and not mere accessories, he felt her urgency—a sort of decadent self-assertion, yet justly too, to submit to her greater wisdom—that to throw away every stacked-up dogma and mode of thinking was essential, and nothing else the better. The words gathered and set up a growing resonance, and so the sense of it blurred, the sections, the lines, until only Runa's thought remained, her want which, being itself to train his will, and his will belonging to her, faded every faction. So she placed her thumb on the ball of his neck, and he did not move, felt no fear at all beside her, no more than Runa could fear her own hand would harm her.

She stopped reading. After a long pause, her hand quite still on his neck, she said, "Shadow … are you sleeping?"

He ought to move, he thought, let her know that he didn't fall asleep as she was reading, as if he didn't care to listen. But if he moved (he felt it returning now, the fear, the motion) there would be nothing to stop her leaning forward, as she would, and, like that, kissing his nose; and then, because she would only like it, he would reach over to touch her cheek, as if to say good night, and she would wrap her arms around and fall asleep with his head at her shoulder. And from that, he knew, there would be nothing to save him: he extended too far, and the passions pressed forward. Soon the sickness would reassert itself, and with everyone else asleep, finding himself pressed against Runa, enveloping her, how could he keep from pressing closer, laying kisses on her hair and mouth and shoulder? Then there was only one way it ended, with everything falling apart. And Runa would release him, and burn her draft, and say that Pokémon were not like people.

The lamp switched off and Runa removed her hand. "Good night, Shadow," she said.

As surely as if he laughed while she read to him, he felt at once as filth, a disappointment to Runa, as if he didn't care that she worked for their benefit; so he moved, just a little, so that she'd know—the hand returned and touched his neck. In five minutes he would look at her—in thirty seconds, till she wasn't looking—but she was already asleep. Her hand laid still on his neck.

Out by the rocks he heard Gaia turn and rearrange her coils. He would pay for it later, he thought, this sleeping with Runa; they would say he wanted to be a Dratini again, Dyna and Rita both ragging; and Gaia would be slow to defend him.


	10. Level 40 - Dark Cave (Scenes 4-6)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

He woke as Runa left the bag, and quickly. He'd exposed himself, was his first thought—he let something slip, and now she was tying up the bag to flee—but then the Zubat cried again, and he understood: it was the Clefairy, come to try and steal her.

Runa had on her shoes and jacket; a Zubat dove near, and Torus used the telekinesis, threw it away. Some botched heist by the rotten Pokémon, he thought, flapping and shrieking as they were; the bags were strewn about, everything scattered as the Zubat failed to lift them and made off with single items, an apple, a ball of rice. Tanwen shot a Fire Blast but failed to hit, each diving between the arms, and Runa said to let them go, that if they were fleeing there was no use hurting them on top. Then Dyna shot lightning after one with a cry of "_Amph_!", and by the light he saw what a pair of Zubat had gotten, what Rita called out after:

"[Runa's bag!]"

He flew after them. It was her half-crescent bag, what she took off going into bed with him, what was on her waist when they met, containing all the most important things, the badges, the cards, Runa's phone with the map. She couldn't possibly lose it—they'd set everything back by months, leave them stranded in the cave! Couldn't the rotten Zubat tell there wasn't any food in it, that it had no worth to them at all, yet meant the world to Runa?

He was gaining on them; Gaia as well, behind him. "[I'll shoot,]" she said—"[you catch.]"

She was a much better shot anyhow; a wrong hit and the gear would be ruined, the bag burnt to pieces. She let off a Thunderbolt behind him, hit the leading Zubat squarely: the other grabbed her criminal partner and made off, let the bag go, tumbling downward like a hoop. He rushed forward, reached it just in time: his spike passed through, and the bag stuck halfway down his neck.

It didn't look damaged: the pouches were all shut. And Runa would say it was all right, that it didn't matter much if they lost it, that it only took asking to replace a lost badge, but that was beside the point. It was Runa's bag the day he met her, on her waist when she freed them in the Corner; it had the their first ever photograph, he behind Gaia and Runa's leg. And it was possible, he thought, that it was where she kept the balls, the ones that legally tied them to her, without which any rot could try and steal them.

Gaia seemed to think the same: she looked and said, "[Nothing fell out, did it?]"

But at the camp, he saw, there was a great commotion: the stupid Zubat were carrying off Dyna's whole bag, but at an angle so that all the loose things rained out; and Dyna, howling and throwing a rock after them now knelt and, swelling with an enormous charge, summoned what had to be a full-blown Thunder. And perhaps she aimed some rightly—the Zubat dropped the bag and fled, chattering away into the distance—but one bolt flew astray at a right angle, arcing up into one of the stalactites, which, being as it was coated in water and ice, burst to pieces. And like so many Bullet Seeds, in a moment, he saw, dozens were falling, directly above the camp.

Perhaps he cried out, as Gaia started, but none of them looked; nobody saw, except Torus, who raise his spoons above his head. There was a great flash, through which he couldn't see—and then he heard the stalactites crash into the camp, and then it was all black.

They were dead, he thought—all gored at once. Runa's body would be cold before he even reached her: he might have pulled her out, shielded her with his own flesh, but he abandoned her and now she died. Gaia called after him, said more may fall—let it be! If Runa was gone he would throw himself on the same spike!

It was all quiet now, all the Zubat gone into the tunnels, nobody calling out. He shot a flame over the camp to see. But there was no one he could spot, no Runa, no Dyna or Torus; the spots where Tanwen and Rita had been were ringed by ash. Had they all vapourised? Was that how Fire types died, obliterating everything around? But Runa—where was—

"[They teleported,]" Gaia said, arriving behind him, her horn projecting a white light. "[They're safe. Calm down.]"

How could he be calm? What if Torus was too slow? What if one of the pieces struck—

"[They're probably in Violet City by now,]" Gaia said. "[Nobody's hurt, I'm sure.]"

"[How d'you know?]" he said. He wasn't well, he knew; Gaia looked at him a little afraid. "[Did you see?]"

"[When they were fifty feet up, at least,]" she said. "[They're all fine. Runa's fine. You have to calm down. She wouldn't want you going to pieces.]"

Of course, he thought, any appeal to Runa now was past his limit: he burst into tears and fell over her. He'd nearly lost Runa forever—lost, because he flew away and left her! If she was safe … But Torus had no reason not to save them. She was in Violet City. She was well and laughing at the close shave. The nurses at the Pokémon Centre remembered her and asked about her trip. But how certain it seemed that everything had ended! Now that feeling returned he became such a wreck; he was trembling uncontrollably; Gaia shushed him as he buried his face in her neck. And now Runa would be looking about, checking they all were present; and seeing he was missing, Gaia was missing, she was now flying into a panic, he knew, saying they had to go back, that she wished they forgot her bag, that it wasn't worth it. She would fret horribly on his account. Calm, Gaia said; and now Runa was lacking both her Dragonair, whom the Goldenrod Gazette said she was never seen without.

Gaia uncoiled and touched her nose to his. "[Stay with me,]" she said, "[all right? We'll protect each other.]"

"[Th— Thank you,]" he said.

"[As if I'd leave you, gummy,]" she said, and rose again. "[Come on, let's see what's left.]"

The light of her horn increased, not so bright as Dyna's tail but bright enough to show up the cave around them. Most of the bags were left behind, not picked up in the teleport, and the stone had crashed all over them. Tanwen's, he saw, was torn right through; her ginger ale was leaking out onto the stone. It all seemed unnaturally still, now; but the Zubat might return any minute, if they saw no more resistance.

"[I can't keep this up forever,]" Gaia said. "[See if you can find the lamp. We need to take stock and decide what to do.]"

And thank all the legendaries, he thought, or fate, or whatever things that perhaps were responsible that Gaia was still here with him! Where would he be without her? A gibbering mess, still thinking Runa was dead, bound to gore himself on some piece of rock, and fail at it. But the frame of Runa's bag, as it was, was all twisted up: a rock went in about where his head had been on Runa's middle and pulled the bag's mouth down with it, tore the fabric. But perhaps the lamp survived … There it was, flung to the side. He pulled it up: it worked.

"[Can you hang it on that?]" she said. Of course, Runa's bag was still on his neck. It might have slipped all the way down Gaia, but it stuck about where Runa's head had been.

"[Well, a lot of it's ruined,]" Gaia said, looking out at the camp. "[But we don't need everything. There's enough food we won't go hungry. We should be fine until Runa gets here.]"

But was that the plan, he thought, only to wait? Runa walking through the wilds alone, he thought; Runa apart from them for days longer than was necessary. And suppose she expected them to come? "[Won't the Zubat come back?]" he said.

"[I don't think we should wander,]" Gaia said. "[Do we even have a map?]"

"[It's on her phone,]" he said. "[Can … can they find us without it?]"

"[They have Torus,]" she said. That solved it, of course: Alakazam had—what was it called?—an eidetic memory, one that remembered everything. "[They'll find us just fine, but not if we wander.]"

"[But we should meet them,]" he said, coming up beside. "[Or, or meet them halfway, at least, and save time. We can bring most of it, can't we? What if she expects us to work it out? Shouldn't we prove we're independent?]"

"[It really bothers you?]" she said, looking at him. And what did she expect? he thought, that he would pretend not to care for Runa in a case like this? But she seemed to reconsider; liked perhaps the thought of proving themselves. "[All right. Let's head back as far as the entrance. Then they'll be sure to pass, and we won't miss them in the forest. We'll find a spot to wait, and Torus will see.]"

It was as if they were arranging tea, he thought, how little Gaia minded: she was hardly even flustered, even now with Runa missing. It's just one of those things that happens, she seemed to say, so why not accept it and relax? His timidity was just another factor to account.

"[We don't have to carry everything,]" Gaia said, pulling open Tanwen's bag. "[I'll get this and Dyna's—you start picking up anything important of Runa's. We'll be much quicker now that we can make our own pace, don't you think? She'll probably just take us through again after. Let's leave some food for the Zubat, so they don't bother us.]"

Did they deserve it, he thought, when they were the cause of everything? But Gaia was sensible; seemed nearly happy at the circumstance, as (so she said) they would prove themselves capable alone. Gaia always was the best at being independent, as Runa taught them. He would do everything she ordered; she would take the map, and lead them to Runa.

* * *

To leave anything of Runa's, he found, was impossible, so Gaia decided for him.

Most of the others' possessions survived: Dyna's light ball, which doubled as a lamp they could charge; Rita's scarves which became a padding for the straps—nothing belonging to Torus, who must have been holding his bag as they teleported. —Left the rest for us, Gaia said. Tanwen's bag, however, was ruined, most of it bottles of ginger ale that now were burst, only a little wrapped-up parcel that, so far as they could tell by its sound, contained a soothe bell or something like it. His bag was mostly food, untouched by the stupid Zubat for how heavy it looked. He laid out most of his apples for them, and Gaia put most of them right back in, as he could hardly stomach anything else. —You'd be fitter if you weren't such a sweet tooth, she said. If the Zubat didn't like Dyna's food, all limes and bitter tarts, they'd eat it just the same for sustenance. That was enough for their bags; but Runa's possessions, so far as he felt, were too important: everything she kept seemed irreplaceable.

He argued to take her sleeping bag—the same bag they used to share. There was no point, Gaia said: it was punched right through and ruined, and Runa ought to get a larger one anyway as they would soon be able to carry as much as they wanted, Dragonite being so much stronger.

Then there were the draft papers. They were smeared and sodden, all the broken icy rock getting on them, and Gaia said, quite rightly, that Torus could rewrite every draft from memory, that nothing whatever was lost; but he insisted they'd take them, nearly snapped at her that they were a masterpiece or some nonsense. Runa would only replace them in weeks, said many times they were only provisional—but she would know that he cared, that he considered them important, and had been listening. They went into the bag. The rest of her clothes, all he could fit, did the same, and her books: nearly everything of hers came along, and, Gaia said, he would be the one carrying it. She seemed irritated that he would bother, said that Runa could do without those particular clothes and books for a few days, if not forever. But Runa wrote in the margins, sometimes. In the end he only returned it all to Runa's bag and took the whole thing, tied it up below his neck so that he still might move easily; and between that and her waist bag and her hat (for it too had fallen) perched between his horn and feathers, he looked, she said, just like Runa.

—She'll think you want to replace her. (He must have turned pink: she laughed.)

She hardly worried at all, he thought, as they tracked back through the cave (it wouldn't be more than a day, she said, now that they could fly properly). She seemed almost excited, as though they only set off on a fond adventure. They were like their own group now, she said, their own team. So she carried on conversation, to ease his mind, he knew, and distract him from worrying about Runa.

—But you're about the fastest on the team. I may be a bit more experienced but it's in your nature to be quick: I never had it.

—… You're quick, though.

—I'm not quick: I'm sturdy. Maybe I'd win a battle, but you'd win a race, for sure.

—Only till you evolve.

—And then you'll evolve. Then everything'll be different. We won't have trouble holding a few bags, that's for sure. We'll have arms and legs like them, and wings too. We'll be big enough to carry everyone, easily, and then forget all this surface business. It'll be the two of us: Runa's two Dragonite! We'll be champions with her. Don't you think?

He would never again wrap around Runa, he thought, embrace her on the full length of both sides. As a Dragonite, it may be he was too heavy to fly.

—Do you ever feel bad? About the others. I mean if we evolve.

—Why? Why should that make them feel bad?

—Well … they're all fully evolved, and … you know, I still think you're the best on the team. Tanwen has to try really hard just to keep up with you. But everyone says Dragonite are really powerful. Then she won't be a match at all, no matter how hard she tries.

—Tanwen's issues aren't my fault or yours or Runa's. She only thinks about herself, not the team: there's no changing it. It's easier to let her be that way.

He did not pursue it. But was it compatible, he thought, with Runa's philosophy? She would say she only wanted for their dreams; but this was the contradiction, where one's dreams ran into opposition with another's: Tanwen, wanting the top spot, whilst Gaia wanted the same, for that was what Gaia wanted, to become the greatest Dragonite in the world, and—nobody would say it aloud, of course—the greatest Dragonite was surely more powerful than the greatest Typhlosion could be.

Gaia was in no hurry, of course; always let things come at their own pace so long as there was steady improvement; let the conversation wander as he liked, except to take it off Runa when he returned to her, to save his worry. But every so often it returned, and she had something to say.

—I don't get you.

—But she is! She understands us, even without Torus. Don't you think she's a, a genius in reading Pokémon?

—That's a bit strong. She doesn't really understand what we say. She makes mistakes in reading us all the time.

—But better than any human, I mean. And, there's her way. In battling. No one's come up with anything like it!

And Gaia sighed, looked away; You're getting that way again, she meant to say, defending Runa from the least criticism when, as Gaia saw it, she was only being sensible, and not attacking her at all.

—It's her way to let us do what we want, isn't it?

—It's her way to help us find our dreams.

—Right. But what we want every moment isn't necessarily what helps our dreams. That's why I said it's not good to only train us in what we want. Suppose we really want to be more powerful, like Tanwen. Now suppose, as she did until recently, that Tan thinks the best way is to practice Flame Wheel, because it's versatile, but which isn't as powerful, especially now she's bigger and can't spin as well. Well, Runa only knows that she wants to train in Flame Wheel. So she lets her; but then she isn't helping her actual dream to get powerful as quick as possible, because it's bad training. The better way is for Tan to practice, say, Fire Blast, which Tan doesn't like since it's hard to land, and she isn't patient enough to practise. If Runa only let her do what she likes, she wouldn't practise Fire Blast, and she'd be stunted. So by listening to what Tan says she wants rather than what's actually best for her, Runa would really be hurting her by letting her waste her effort. Do you get it?

Now it was wretched, he knew, the sort of thing Runa thought very base, when someone said a rational thing but, all the same, he felt himself rallying against it. He couldn't stand anything against Runa: his heart fluttered and his face flushed: he became, as Dyna said, all lit up. That was when Rita and Tanwen knew to rib him, Dyna too if she felt like it, and he had to be quiet or risk speaking too far, and they all stopped laughing and looked at him. Humans, Gaia thought, were useful and interesting and could make good friends—that was it, and such had been her opinion since long before Runa, having seen humans now and then around the rivers and lakes she once lived in, and such was the opinion of most other Pokémon. In the Corner, however, before he knew better, he would lose all proportion and say that humans were the most amazing creatures in the world, until all the cages tittered. Then, as he defended himself, as they began to treat him seriously, someone threw out that word, like a Voltorb about to burst in his face: anthropophile, a human-lover. He'd never heard it (some show he missed), but he could tell it was something horrific and medical, some disorder, just the thing to describe him. So he coiled up at once, declared rather a want for a trainer he may follow, or some comfortable human family, so as to be free from the cage and all worry. So they laughed—he, the fat and timid Dratini, imagined a trainer, to train! But that was safer than to say he only wanted a lap, or a hand, something to stroke and feel. Not hours ago, so Runa gave him. She did not treat him as she did the others; she was overjoyed when he started training, because she thought that his dream, if not to become a battler, was at least to conquer his fears; and as it meant nothing at all to him, the battling at any rate, wasn't it the case he obstructed not just his own dream, but Runa's as well? For he lied and so he undermined her dream, to help another's dream truly. That was the real contradiction. Runa, her phenomenal quality, made her think only of others and not herself; so she never imagined a Pokémon could be happy with just her company, seeing so much more in them.

It was all a mess, of course, and his fault too. But how much easier if he could only cut through the fog, without this barrier of language between them! Then he could express himself clearly, that he only wanted to be near; find out how to help her truly; even explain, perhaps, his love, that it wasn't a thing he could help, and so beg her not to leave him. Why wasn't it possible, just to speak? Pokémon could understand humans, had an understanding of language right from the egg which, even for a wilder, included human languages, however that worked. (He would have to ask Torus; and it wasn't complete, at any rate, as the understanding of certain concepts and ideas still escaped them, and that was a large part of language.) And yet humans, who were otherwise superior in every way, lacked the same, had to learn even their own languages from scratch, had to use their gift for adaptation which, so it seemed, was the source of language in the first place. And as no human dex existed of Pokémon speech, to this day only psychics and a ghost or two could speak to them, as they could in a way project the language, rather than learn to speak it. But were Pokémon so unadaptable that they couldn't even learn how to speak?

—What if she could understand us, and we could just tell her what we're really thinking, you know, what we really want? Do you think a human could learn? Or, or could a Pokémon learn to speak like a human?

—You mean like Torus?

—No, really speaking. With a voice. Hasn't it been done before? Do, do you remember the documentary on the Devon Corporation? They were trying to build a translator for Pokémon so that humans could understand us, like we understand then. That's owned by the Stones, isn't it? Doesn't Runa know them?

—It's just psychics. I don't know about a translator—I don't remember. But why do you need one? We've got Torus. He can ask her anything. Beyond that, isn't it enough to speak to other Pokémon?

—But— But then Runa could really know what we want!

—And can't Torus tell her?

—What if I don't want to use Torus? Some bird Pokémon can talk like humans, even if they don't match the words. Can't we figure it out? What if we practised and learnt how?

And she said, —I don't know; and now she was getting impatient, he saw, and wanted to be done with the conversation. But it had to be possible, speaking to humans … that or his nature was sabotaging himself, wanting further things that were impossible. Yet it couldn't be impossible, as ghosts could do it, and didn't speaking in such words mean a power to assemble language? It was just a matter of practising the words, surely. But what a thing! he thought, for such ghost Pokémon to become at will a human, to only speak and be understood, not to need all these gestures and looks to convey a meaning, not to need some psychic proxy. As for all they said about Dragonair being elegant and graceful, it only meant they had less latitude to express themselves, really among the most constrained of all, like a Snubbull stuck in one look. A Dragonair could flush and look sorry, and trill—that was it. But to speak! to look up at Runa and say … But Dragonite were supposed to be clever. After evolution, perhaps, he might find a way, learn somehow to speak human, it being not impossible but only difficult, and no one before him had been as motivated. Then with the right words he might let her understand, explain his feelings, that he'd bottle them up forever if she wanted it, if only she let—

—Are you going to try and teach yourself or something? Gaia said.

—Oh! I … It probably isn't possible.

—Well, maybe when you evolve, if you're still more interested in talking to humans than other Pokémon, you'll find a way.

She was quiet a long while after that, but why should it bother her, his only being foolish again?

* * *

The moon was half full. He hardly saw a thing until they reached the entrance; and then they were out on the road, east of Violet City, the stars above them. For a moment he thought only hours had passed, still dark, but Gaia said it was the next day, that they had travelled from night to night, and would probably, depending on Runa's speed, be waiting for three or four days.

—But we can find her, he said—let's keep going.

He wasn't thinking, she said: Runa may take a shortcut, try to return quickly, even get a flight or a car and then miss them on the road. And wasn't he tired? For Gaia yawned and pulled his bag. There was a nook in the wall with a narrow opening which, Gaia said, would conceal them from anyone but Torus.

—Besides, we're a big target to any trainers out there, if they think we're wilders. We'll lose Runa for sure if we wandered; here, she's coming straight to us. Just leave it to Torus.

She seemed deflated, he thought, as she laid down her bag and stretched; she seemed to feel a thing grew tedious, didn't turn out as she imagined, this adventure (they had not encountered a single wilder, flying all the while, nor another trainer on the road), and after their falling out (for now he had to call it that, hardly speaking in the last few hours) only wanted it over and done with. The loss of Runa, however terrible it felt in the instant, was just another unplanned trip to Saffron: Runa stepped out for just a minute, and was on her way back directly, at no risk whatsoever of losing her, and nothing to show they were lost without her.

The nook was just a hollow near the ground, probably some old rock Pokémon or Excadrill's nest, hardly three or four times the size of Runa's sleeping bag, tight enough to bother Dyna, perhaps, but cage-life had cured them of any fear of small spaces. Gaia stood their bags up inside the entrance. She didn't look at him, still tired of his company, he thought. But he asked, and she was perfectly normal. Nothing was the matter, she said. They would lie and rest; and perhaps, she said, Runa would be along sooner than they guessed. Would they feel her coming? he thought. Would Torus send out some psychic ping, something to guide them? Gaia took out her food; told him to have his, that his stomach was grumbling.

After a while he said, "[Can … can I ask you something?]"

She looked at him over her lemon juice and said, "[Hm?]"

But how did one go about saying it? That was the thing about long friendships: either things opened up and became available, one's deepest thinking exposed, or the differences, the willing support, were taken as granted and not discussed, all depending on the characters. For him and Gaia, there was plenty of talk on different subjects, but after so long in the cage taking the other for granted, to say anything about their actual friendship now was too unusual. And really he did not know Gaia's mind; where he let half of everything out, hid the rest closely, she neither cared to share things nor cared not to: she'd answer any question, with pleasure even, yet volunteer nothing, so at ease with herself and others that she never minded. If only he had that nature!—if only, he thought, finishing his apple, he had her lack of passion. For it wasn't that she felt less—she was as affected as anyone in a just cause—but that her feeling obeyed to a powerful calm, a simple grace, which for other dragons like himself was unusual. It was why they deferred to her in everything, in the Corner; it was what made her now, they all knew, the centre of the team, being fair and constant, and always would be. She said hard things about Tanwen, not because she was bitter, but because they were true. And she'd be famous, already was in some city papers; she would stand on the dais and hoist the cup, and he, if he was there at all, would be lucky to be seen beside her.

So it was low of him, he thought, looking away, to ask such a thing—what she thought of him—not caring for her opinion's sake but only thinking of himself in relation to Runa. But if Runa was to hold him, when she returned, and become emotional, if he was to know how to act and check his behaviour, to be essential to her so that she may never bear his leaving …

He said, "[I was just wondering what you thought about me. You know … after all this time.]"

She swallowed; it did not appear to go down correctly. "[Uh,]" she said, coughing. "[I'm sorry. I'm not sure how you mean.]"

He lay down; for that was the trouble, he thought, when despite long friendship, the two natures opposed, and one had to spill out whilst the other was made to endure it—sucking her dry, perhaps. To train was difficult; the others looked at him; so he may look at Gaia and, without saying anything, she would know he sought her support and, as if to say she wouldn't hear it, that he thought too little of himself and didn't need her affirmation, she frowned and looked away. But perhaps the once he may only say it, he thought, without the others near, and she'd be different.

"[I'm not dumb,]" he said—"[not that dumb. I know you talked to me in the Corner because we were stuck and there was nothing else to do. If we'd met before you'd never … And, and I know you don't feel that way now—I know we're real friends—but I'm just wondering how much is because I'm any different, or … or because you already knew me.]"

She looked at him for a long moment; and without warning she put her tail on his bag, which stood beside him, and tipped it onto his head.

"[That's the most rotten thing you've ever said to me,]" she said, removing it. "[As if I don't choose my friends for themselves! Do you think I'm so desperate I'd spend time with someone I didn't like? Do you think if I thought you were worthless I'd come and talk to you? You're just so bad at judging yourself you think it's impossible anyone could like you.]"

"[I'm sorry,]" he said, as she brushed him off. "[I know, I … I don't know anything. It's just—]"

"[Runa thought it was me you were sad about, in the Corner,]" she said. She looked away; for this was one of the few things that made her uncomfortable, his speaking gravely out of nowhere. "[I knew it wasn't that, though. You weren't even thinking of me, were you? You just wanted Runa.]"

"[I—]" he said. What did she know? She spoke to Torus. "[I, I just wanted a trainer.]"

"[You just wanted somebody who'd love you, and protect you,]" she said, and she sighed, coiling alongside him: she didn't know. "[I get it. After the Corner, we all wanted some security. But you're more than just some sponge. What is it you asked, what I think of you? Here's the truth. I think you're number two in the team, after me, and even then it's just because I've had more training. I think you think you're stupid, and maybe you're a bit naive, but that's not the same. You can be the smartest person I know, after Torus. You know more about the world and humans than any of us. And you're not fat either. You're in better shape now than you've ever been, and I swear it's a condition. And you're not as scared as you used to be. You've got a timid nature, but you're working through it. If you weren't dedicated to improving yourself, you couldn't have evolved for Runa. You're a proper dragon, Shadow, whatever you think.]"

She indulged him, of course—she didn't really think all that, when he was so pathetic he couldn't look at her as she was speaking. "[I'm not proper,]" he said. "[Why do you say, 'for Runa'?]"

"[It's perfectly obvious, Shadow,]" she said. (But she couldn't know, he thought; she wouldn't touch him if she knew.) "[You do everything you can, try and be whatever she thinks you want to be, just so she's happy. Then, you think, you'll be special to her.]"

But could she know? "[Special?]" he said.

"[Because then she'll never want to let you go,]" she said, "[and won't release you, or put you in a box. But Runa'd never do that to any of us—it's just your worrying makes you imagine. We're all special to her. She's on her way here right now, and you know she'll apologise like it was her fault and say she'll never let us out of sight again. You're already safe with Runa, Shadow. You just have to relax and not worry so much, and start appreciating what's around you.]"

Was it possible, he thought, for she said she really didn't mind his nature, was it possible that Gaia might find out about him, his true feeling, and not think worse of him? For really she deserved to know: she knew him so long, knew things none of the others did, and wouldn't this explain him entirely? Wasn't that what friends were for, he thought, to confide things, to expose oneself and, once accepted, to ease some worry, lend their strength? He owed everything to Gaia, his part in the team, his even beginning to train. Without her looking back for him, he would not even be with Runa—she deserved to know. (But he couldn't say it, no, not to Gaia; and Torus would see, and think they were in league together, that he tried to build support, and now would use Gaia to get at her.)

He said, "[Th— Thank you.]" And Gaia smiled and lay beside him.

Out across the cave some Geodude or other thumped a rock and the echo carried on a long while. In the alcove, tucked away with Gaia between him and the entrance, even without Runa he felt safe. She and Torus were on their way presently; and as if connected by threads which bundled as she approached, and in a few days or hours she would find them and never, she would say, taking his head in her arms, never leave again, he felt just to lay on the rock with Gaia (and he would have fallen to pieces without her) was such a happy thing that whatever worries bothered him before seemed a puff of nonsense, all up and vanished like a teleport.

Gaia said, "[Can I ask you a question?]" Anything, of course! He nodded.

She said, rather quietly, "[What do you think of me?]"

He raised his head. Not that it wasn't fair to ask—perfectly so, after his question—but then it was odd to think she wondered, or did not already know, for did he ever mask his feeling for her? But she looked at him, looked as if she had reason to worry!

He said, "[Well, you're the best on the team. The best Runa has! Th-there's not a day I don't wish I was more like you. You're so sure and, and relaxed, and—]"

But something was lacking; Gaia looked at him; she wanted something, he thought, that he wasn't considering, that as a friend she had a right to expect. But what?

I'd be lost without you.

You're my best friend.

"[Y— You're my favourite Pokémon ever,]" he said.

And she couldn't help but smile; she hooked her neck around his, pulled until his head was on her middle. "[Aw,]" she said. "[That's sweet. Coming from you, that's really warm.]"

Was it what she wanted? he thought. For she gave a great sigh and, stretching a moment, turned and laid her head on him.

In a minute she was up again and said, "[I'm cold.]" She pulled the bag up and began to lay it out like a barrier. "[Let's stay close. Are you sleepy?]"

He ought to be; but the fresh air of the valley, he felt, still left him alert. In a moment the alcove entrance was half-covered, and they would be quite safe from all: a little short-roofed cul-de-sac no Zubat could squeeze through without them knowing, and in any case Gaia, who now was making space and telling him to lay out and get comfortable, could quake right out of the cave if necessary, should some Ryhorn appear and charge them: they were perfectly safe. And—oh! There fell out with his apples, on the ground, Runa's notes. He would pack them tightly, let her see as she came that he saved them. Or perhaps Gaia wanted to hear?

"[Do you want to hear Runa's draft?]" he said. After so long in the Corner, reading human script was second nature, and Runa's handwriting (all connected, all in one curved line) was easy, even through the stains and damp. She wouldn't lose any work from it, could reproduce everything even without Torus.

Gaia lay out and looked away as he switched on the lamp, dimmer now than it was. "[Aren't you tired?]" she said.

"[I can't sleep,]" he said. For he hadn't memorised it, couldn't remember anything apart from pieces! He must read.

Gaia reached over and, taking the pad in her mouth, laid it by the neck of his bag and said, "[Tomorrow.]" She turned off the lamp and stretched out over him, laying her head on his middle. "[Let's sleep,]" she said.

But he couldn't sleep, not without Runa. So he would wait until Gaia slept and then, by a light glow from his horn, if he could maintain it, look them over again and again until she arrived. For she may arrive in the morning, and he had to remember everything, or wouldn't he be a rotten Pokémon to Runa, as if he didn't care at all for her dream?


	11. Level 45 - Blackthorn (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 45**

So according to Clair, he thought, he would always be worthless.

And being Master of the Dragon Tamer Clan, a title which could not be more terrifying, was there anything that she didn't know about dragons? With one glance, he had felt, she left nothing unexamined in him; even saw his love for Runa, perhaps, and didn't speak so as only to bring her harm, some retribution for what she said defending him. He never saw Runa so angry! He was brilliant, she said, a dedicated battler—caking on praise to cover up the rot. But Clair saw through everything: nothing escaped a Dragon Master.

Perhaps he was only being morbid, as Gaia said. Morbidity was about sickness and disease in things, the dictionary said, but also about appearance, as when Tanwen now described him, both of them, she said, pointing to Gaia's new body, so that Gaia leered down at her, now some eighteen inches taller, and no doubt twice as powerful. When Runa returned from the shops and saw them … But scenes like that were not why the team rotted. They were signs of rot, not the cause itself. Runa, for all the horrid things Tanwen or Rita said, was not to blame, nor her philosophy, which after all was so refined (she and Torus had discussions over single words now, minor sentences, not sections or paragraphs)—though Tanwen certainly helped things along. With the Conference only a few months away, she began to feel they were short on training, which was her way of saying that Runa favoured them, favoured her dragons, and didn't throw it all into one Typhlosion who had some more rightful claim, and so she grew more and more demonstrative, made herself out at as the only one trying. Perhaps, as Tanwen said, the team was not perfectly balanced, but how did that surprise her now? It was no surprise that a sixth never approached them with every wilder seeing her as a future companion. What with her and all the pressure mounting upon them, now Dyna withdrew even further from battling; said that they covered electricity enough, that she wasn't really needed, for which she fell into arguing with Tanwen. Torus only stayed near Runa; spoke less and less to the others; shut him out of so much as approaching. But that was for the team, and Runa's philosophy. And then there was Rita.

—We'll probably visit Hoenn after the tournament. You'd like to see it, wouldn't you?

—_Tales_.

—I'm sure you'd like it. But if you want to keep travelling after that—

—_Nine_.

Then Rita had turned her red eyes at Runa, as if to say that she was very slow. For Rita was a mistake, Dyna said, not even to tease her, and no one could disagree: everybody knew that Rita shouldn't be there, was never meant to be picked, and only represented a failure of Runa's judgement. And Rita looked at them and said, —O, why should I care what you think? will any of you live to a thousand? The whole façade cracked and there was nothing behind it: what appeared to be a self-absorbed but doubting Pokémon (all the warmth and effort taken from Runa, all the hours), only afraid, as he was, of stepping up and amounting to something, turned out to be hollow, rotted out by vanity. Runa turned away and, so he saw, began to wipe her eye, left them for over an hour—wanted to be alone, wanted to be away from her Pokémon! —You should have been a Bulbasaur, Tanwen had said, spitting at Rita; —She should have gone home for real Pokémon; we should have been six from the start. And perhaps she was right, he thought: everything would have been different with one more like Gaia, one who did not only try to get advantage.

But if Rita was the aberration in Runa's plan, he thought, Tanwen was the intrinsic failure. Her dream was to be champion, and top of the team; —Where's my dream? she said. Stuck to four who, if they took even the smallest attention, committed in her mind an injustice, Tanwen felt there was no possible way to effect it. So she argued with Rita; argued with Dyna; argued with Gaia who had firmly displaced her, left her to struggle for third, and soon he'd be evolving also, they said. And wasn't that the real reason that Tanwen was angry, and that made her speak as she did? For she would never be first on the team now, they knew; but that would be the team at fault, Tanwen suggested, and certainly not herself.

—You know if we fail at Silver Town, and after all this it's been for nothing, it's not my fault if I have to explore my options. If Runa won't change, it's not my fault.

Explore her options, he thought, as if Tanwen wanted a refund on a faulty trainer! Dyna slapped her; Tanwen grabbed her head and flung her into the lake, would have struck anyone who spoke, he imagined, seeing her eyes, if Torus hadn't teleported ahead of Runa and Gaia to interrupt her. Then when Runa was next away, Gaia laid her hand on Tanwen and explained how, if she ever felt a need in future to cool down, there'd be several Surfs and Waterfalls to accommodate her. (And Gaia changed as well. She didn't say much about how it felt to be a Dragonite, only that it was odd having limbs, that she found it easier to concentrate; yet she was more reserved, a little less relaxed, sometimes went hours now without talking, as they walked or exercised, and rarely began a conversation. But then he would catch a look at her, when she was alone with Dyna or Runa, and she was herself again; and sometimes he saw her looking at him, and she turned away, as if she didn't mean to interrupt.) After that, Tanwen kept to verbal abuse, sometimes kept away entirely so as not to argue; and wasn't that a wretched state the team had come to, where some avoided others to avoid battling amongst themselves? And of those who bothered her, he knew, it was him she hated most: he who most stole from her Runa's time, who, like an Exeggutor's dullest head who had to have things explained repeatedly, most slowed them down, sucked their energies, and now—what was unforgivable—after all Runa's attention nearly grew to be competitive, at least by the record of spars. No one else had drive like Tanwen; no one worked harder to win, it was true; and still Runa embraced a sleepy Ampharos and a hair-sniffing Dragonair as equals, and that was intolerable to her.

(Gaia gave a touch to say she was turning in, and looked at him before ducking into the lobby. Runa continued to read.)

It would be easy to call Tanwen, then, the source of their troubles—too vain, too narcissistic, driving the team apart with her ambition—easy enough for that; so why, they would say, was he the cause of failure and not her? Because he was—what was it? some word in that documentary on the Pondelores in Kalos—the catalyst, yes, that which being present caused others to affect each other. Tanwen wanted attention proportional to merit, and he became a sodden counterbalance, pulling against her. Dyna's best use was electricity, and by training his, he enabled her to fall out, and if not for his example, possibly Rita wouldn't have kept out at all. Gaia would not always be at odds to defend him, if he were different, and Torus—how much energy did he waste just to watch him? No, he thought: the signs were obvious. It was that his nature, his genetics, was all junk. So Clair had said as much herself in the Dragon's Den.

—She's just some old trainer, Shadow. She doesn't know you at all.

Clair had heard that they were in Blackthorn, and summoned her, as presumably the Dragon Master had a right and expectation to do of of anyone who trained dragons—and Runa nearly ignored it, said they might get the last badge in another place. What did it matter, Runa said, what some Dragon Master thought? Clair had a reputation for being hard; she followed the pondelorian style, he had read. And that Clair believed dragons were the greatest type, Runa said, was wrong—the opposite, she explained, to loving all Pokémon equally, which was what a leader of training ought to teach. Perhaps that was a part of why Runa did it, to defend her view, and criticise a bad if yet popular philosophy. So she took him and Gaia to the Dragon's Den; a place, he thought, which smelt familiar, struck a few old memories perhaps, not the pagoda or the trainers, but the darkness, the waters. Had he really been born there, in one of the connected tunnels? So Clair thought.

She had knelt on a pad between two braziers, and saw straight through him, he felt, by her sense for dragons, the foremost expert after Lance: she saw his whole character—his history, his neuroses—and found it wanting. That was her judgement: wanting, and that Runa was less for keeping him.

—You raised them together?

—They were together when we met, yes.

She didn't say he started training later than Gaia; never let her hand off his neck, having some idea, he believed, how a Pokémon must feel to be judged on technical quality. Clair saw things in him which Runa only guessed, things even Torus could not have seen.

—He is older than her. He must be, to be so much longer. Pale skin marks a cave-born, like ours. (She addressed Runa, he felt, as like a pupil who hadn't mastered the basic conditions.) I suppose he has greater resistance to ice and fire? It's what I thought. Some of the tunnels in the Den connect with the Ice Path. There have been reports of dragons interbreeding with new arrivals there, other-region Pokémon who escaped the Mount Silver Safari Zone, Walrein and the like. In some cases—we don't know how—their abilities have begun inheriting. In principle, Thick Fat isn't the worst ability for a dragon. But Walrein are built to carry it—Dragonair, not so much. It's a problem we'll have to look into.

That was his story, he thought, in a few sentences. Gaia looked at him as if to say, Didn't I tell you? It really was a condition. But as if this was better! It only meant he was irreparable, had some sort of mutation, was bound to be pallid and fat forever. Before it might have been only his lack of control, something that, with enough improvement, a better character may correct … now he would never compare to Gaia. And Clair said that she, the shiny Dragonite, was very well, that she was sturdy, had the multichromatic scale, like oil on water, which, even as she lost her pink and gold, appeared to him in a way even more beautiful. It was possible she could become a champion, Clair said, with a matching team behind her.

—You have potential, Runa. Dragons rarely thrive so well with a trainer. Evolving them in a matter of months isn't a common feat. But a mature dragon trainer won't divide her efforts between such unequal measures. She isn't afraid to test her dragons' powers, and push them where they're lacking. You need to cultivate discipline.

Runa did not go into her philosophy, but perhaps she ought—it might have avoided all that followed. Instead she only disagreed, and said wouldn't force her Pokémon; and soon, Clair began to lose her calm.

—Dragons are sacred and noble creatures, Runa, who possess a power superior to all others. They deserve a trainer whose will and focus matches theirs, not one who'll let them spoil rotten. I saw at once, the way she walked, that you indulge your Pokémon, that never in your life have you pushed them hard. Well, with two dragons in your team, that can get you seven badges … maybe even a few rounds into the Silver Conference. Then you'll hit a wall. The gyms, Runa, are to weed out the untalented; the championships are to weed out the pretenders. There's no such thing as a champion who isn't willing to sacrifice for her Pokémon. Until your Dragonair overcomes his nature—until you push him to overcome his fears—I cannot imagine you'll win a tournament. As for this one, it's probably too late. I recommend you to wait another year.

The trainer at the door had said that Clair was not in the same school as the old Master: he would have said that nature and strength were not important, that all Pokémon were equal in their own way, and so dragons deserved the same as others; but ever since Clair, things had changed, and everything was dragons and discipline. Still Runa might have let it all pass, had already let worse go against herself from articles in the press; but as Clair attacked him directly, Runa lost her temper—and then the whole thing fell apart, all on his account.

—He's twice the size he should be.

—You said yourself it's his ability!

—You didn't know that before I told you. But you thought it didn't matter when, for all you knew, your lack of discipline crippled him.

—He's not crippled. That's a horrible thing to say.

—He looks like he'd faint if I touched him.

—I'd have thought most things would faint if you touched them.

Why did she do it? why harm herself, he thought, start an argument with a gym leader, someone with all sorts of connections and influence, just the sort of thing one wanted when forming a new school of training, only to defend him before her? Runa hadn't looked at him, but never let her arm off him, either, as Clair delivered her judgements.

—It's not a dragon's fault if he's raised poorly: it's the trainer's. I see your Dragonair and think of what he could become if disciplined, if only he were cultivated properly. You see him and think you'll pet him, and hold him, carry him around until he can hardly throw a Tail for lack of practice, and somehow in the end he's wonderful. Do you understand me? I'm not talking about his physical condition—that's simple to fix. I'm talking about his will. Dragons are the apex Pokémon of this planet, just short of legendaries in their potential and powers, and to let one … atrophy … is amongst the saddest things I know.

("Don't worry about it, Shadow," Runa said, stroking his head. "Why don't you go to bed?" But he couldn't. She continued reading. She had only read, he saw, a couple pages.)

It was only to defend him that Runa answered; she was too fond, unreservedly so—never let go of him, not for a second. And Runa had never made such a scene before as that: it was appalling, monstrous—not that Runa was in the wrong, but how she let herself open to abuse! how she ruined her own chances! For mistaking his want to let it go as want of protection, she then had decided that, as the whole bridge was on fire anyway, she'd speak without reservation:

—I think it's pretty magical that you can judge so easily when you don't know a thing about him. You don't know how far he's grown and what he's accomplished. You don't know what his dreams are and how hard he's struggled to get them. Shadow and Gaia are the strongest Pokémon I know, and they've done it without being slaves to some master. They're proof that a Pokémon's accomplishments come from themselves, not from their trainer. If you won't acknowledge them, then look away—some people will never admit it. But don't try and tell them they're doing it wrongly. We'll get our badge somewhere else.

And at that (how it made him nearly sick!) Clair only smiled, and said:

—I was once fifteen years old. I used to think I knew it all, that what my elders thought, being shown up as less than certain, wasn't a thing to pay attention to. Then I grew up and realised that not only had I as uncertain a grasp of things as them, but a less informed one. I haven't mentioned your family, Runa, nor your wealth, in reaching some judgement. I've given you the benefit of my opinion on the qualities you present here alone. And I admit, my impression may be wrong. Fortunately, there's a simple test. I challenge you for the Rising Badge, right now, in the waters of the Dragon's Den. Two on two—no items, no retreat.

Gaia would have battled on the spot, the way she curled her arms and snorted. But Runa refused—had to ask her team first, she said, and decide who wanted to fight. Then Clair did lose her temper; she meant it for him and Gaia, he knew, that her own veteran Dragonite might crush Gaia and the defective Dragonair under an Outrage. She threatened Runa, said she would be ejected from the League if she refused a gym challenge, all her badges become bits of metal; but Runa said Clair had to give the opportunity: it wouldn't pass the Johto League Authority, she said, forcing battle without a full team to choose from, and hadn't Clair had trouble with them before? The bridge, he thought, was burnt entirely.

When they returned, Runa said he didn't have to fight. For Clair only meant to injure him, she said, to try and make a point, even if she lost the battle. But didn't it prove just the same thing if Runa pulled him out of the battle, he thought, as though he wasn't good enough? It was his fault, he said—he ought to, to defend Runa. But one look at Runa was enough to see that she didn't want him in the Den. It was giving Clair what she wanted to put him in, Gaia said. She deserved a stomp, and would be ready for him, so why not stay out and confound her? Clair's Dragonite was ranked fifth in the world, so he oughtn't come. Tanwen and Torus volunteered; Tanwen assented on grounds of typing. They would leave for the Den in the morning.

* * *

It was hardly two months past midsummer, he knew, and already there was a bite in the mountain air. Soon no one would want to lay out by the lakeside, waiting out the day as they did now for Runa. Why did they fight in the Den and not the gym? Something about presence, Runa said, that Clair wanted. Gym leaders thrived on status, she said, for lacking often the ability to become champions yet having wanted nothing more all their lives, they gained satisfaction by lording over some cult of disciples. And then in a moment Runa apologised, and said she was being unfair.

—She's being a teenager, Dyna said. I saw all that lot on the roads. She'll get over it.

Runa was always warm with them, but to other humans … The press one always had to be careful with, of course, check their manners, but with trainers, those who mistreated Pokémon, Runa could show a temper, didn't think before speaking. Add to that her protectiveness of them, of him especially, and it became a weakness—a vulnerability, rather, as she and Gaia and Torus went to battle for his sake, putting herself at risk. He ought to be there; ought to have insisted, he knew. Was there a better argument, Tanwen said, that Runa lacked discipline as Clair said? She began arguing as soon as Runa left; abused all others' judgement and characters; explained why everything was failing, for they didn't follow her.

"[And what about ice?]" she said. Dyna folded her arms; Rita lay on her basking rock. "[You saw her after she evolved. How's that going to work in the tournament? Have you forgotten Jeanmarie?]"

She was being unfair—it wasn't Gaia's fault that she evolved in the Ice Path. The ice only affected her because she felt it all at once. But it was always a mistake to talk when Tanwen argued, and reason quit her thinking.

"[Everyone in the League has fairies,]" Tanwen said. "[It's ridiculous putting everything on her! And what kind of team doesn't have a dragon counter? This should have been an easy pick to battle Clair. We should have got a fairy or ice-type months ago, or a dark, trained up in all the gyms. And where are we? It's three months to the tournament, and we're still one short, and with two half-measures it's as good as four. Or what are you two adding that I blinked and missed?]"

"[Wow,]" Dyna said, touching her cheeks—"[it's like you're evolving even dumber. Like every team has ice and we do just fine. Gaia's the sweeper. You wanna fight dragons and stuff? Start sweeping. Otherwise shush up and help her!]"

"[What a shame I'm not a Blaziken, you're saying,]" Tanwen said, "[so I can only run about and pass her the baton?]"

"[Hey, yeah!]" Dyna said, looking interested. "[Can we still go swap you for a new one?]"

"[Of course we expect this from a C-list Ampharos,]" Tanwen said, and Dyna bristled: she didn't care about the rankings, he knew, or that she didn't make the top two-hundred Ampharos, except when Tanwen mentioned it. "[We all know you've committed to waste like Rita. That's fine. We weren't using you, anyway: one TM and you were redundant.]"

"[Same's for you,]" Dyna said.

And Tanwen said, "[None of them have Blast Burn! They don't have Eruption!]" and he buried his head in his coil again. It had been a wonderful thing, Gaia evolving, increased the team's strength enormously, yet now it only fuelled these divisions, Tanwen's want, her feeling that she became finally redundant, forever a minor cog in the team. That and the papers that Tanwen found, he thought, when she rifled through Runa's bag in the Mahogany City hotel, found the Hoenn estate's record of breeding, presented it to Dyna and Rita.

—It's not whether I'm better: I am. This proves it.

—I don't know what this stuff means.

—The thirty-ones mean perfect. There are five of them. (She threw the papers onto the bed, as if everything was decided.)

—O Tanwen, what's that little number? Under speed. It is saying you're very slow, dear?

"[You're such a narsonist,]" Dyna said, and behind her he saw Rita resist speaking. "[You notice when you aren't battling, when it's all fish and beaches, but you forget that practically all the time you've always been her starter. Gaia only evolved in the Ice Path 'cause you burned out and she had to take over, so don't big up your stupid powers!]"

Tanwen said, "[This from one who wants to quit the team, who's already let two dragons take her place. You want to go as much as Rita—admit it.]"

And Dyna sparked and said, "[Maybe I do! Maybe if Runa lets them take over that's not a bad thing! Then you can have your fairy and your ice you can get all lordy with, and I don't have to be 'round you!]"

What was it that Dyna said about battling, he thought, all that time ago? That she did it for Runa, who deserved it, and such was her way of paying back. But what use was it to leave and retire, to live in some field in Hoenn? It was her old dream, to get peace—one lost so long as Tanwen and the tournament pressed them all forward. But then Dyna's dream failed even with Runa, and Tanwen's also, and Rita's until she left them; and as Runa's dream was to help in theirs, by necessity hers failed as well. And how was it that everything failed, when no other trainer in the world did so much for her Pokémon?

"[So you agree,]" Tanwen said, smiling, placing her arms on her waist, "[that the team has bad composition. Well, that can only be down to one person. What do you say, Shadow?]" She turned to him. "[Wouldn't you agree this is all Runa's fault? Any time she wanted she could fly to Hoenn and pick out any one of thousands of willing Pokémon to balance the team; but she won't, so the team stays defective, and there's that broken heart out there who'll never join us. Isn't that Runa's failure, killing dreams? Or are you going to let Torus answer for you, just like you let him battle?]"

He wanted to speak, didn't know what he'd say; but Dyna said, "[Shut up!]" at Tanwen and flung some sort of clod she'd made from soil. "[The only mistake Runa ever made was picking you. If you're so hot why'd you faint four times already?]"

That was a mistake to say, he thought, as Tanwen began to bristle. But if they fought— Was it up to him to stop them? There wasn't Gaia or Torus or Runa to calm them. What would Runa think if she returned and found they'd knocked each other out, and he did nothing to stop it?

Tanwen said, "[The Silver Conference is in ninety days. How do you think we'll look with big fat ones across the table? Gaia losses: one. Shadow and Torus: one. Dyna: zero, didn't battle. Runa: one. End of round one. That's a champion's record, right there. You think we'll make it when Runa puts everything into Gaia, and Manda has the best Ice-user in the world? Well, you go ahead—I don't need it. Runa says she gives us liberty. I may just go and take it.]"

She didn't mean it, he thought; she was just talking wildly; Gaia said she only talked of leaving as a threat. On her rock in the sun, Rita tossed her tails and sighed, as if in pleasure for the heat. "[O, do,]" she said. "[That would be a show: Divas Gone Wild. I do hope it airs in Hoenn. We'll see if you can forage a Chesto berry without burning the forest down.]"

"[And you can shut up,]" Tanwen said—"[you've no business talking. You should have been an Oddish, in that forest.]" And now Rita had that look, that fire in her eyes, as when she was preparing for a battle of insults, which would remove attention from Dyna but protract the argument however long, and he could not bear it any longer: he turned and slipped into the lake. If they would keep from attacking one another, he thought, it was better that Runa saw him waiting on the rocks; and if they fought, well, wasn't he away when it happened?

Poor Runa! he thought. It wasn't her fault, as Tanwen said—there were only bad natures all around her. Was it an indictment of all Pokémon that one so kind could become a trainer, form a philosophy which raised them to the level of humans or higher, dedicate herself to the dreams of Pokémon, and then see the whole thing blow up in her face because Pokémon, it seemed, didn't know how to be free? Wilders had liberty, but how far did that get them? Given any chance they took to trainers, to direction, everything humans provided. Now Runa gave up decisions to them, to do as they liked, and how did they respond? Tanwen felt at odds; Dyna felt at odds; all of them were in a way being held up in the air by Runa and, as though she pressed them to fly before evolving, as though he were a Dratini suspended in the air, the nausea flooded in, and yet to fall, to disappoint—

It was getting worse, he felt, this want for Runa. As perhaps one who couldn't breathe underwater felt as they came up for air, and just a few more times in a long swim made the difference between coping and drowning, so it was with his feelings. As like one who developed an appetite for something came to want more of it—like an addict, he thought, of sweets or lemonade, the sort of sugars that at first were an occasional perk but eventually became necessary just to keep from shaking between meals—as a touch from Runa begot want of another, so he felt a growing pain when outside her company, despite their never being closer.

Of course there were causes and reasons for that. (A Poliwag looked up from her Salveyo weed as he passed.) In Saffron City, with Runa gone for one day, the prospect of her separating really began. The Dark Cave was worse, of course, being so sudden, even if she arrived after just the one night of waiting. Those were episodes which, taken alone, he might have recovered from—that is, if not for her similar feeling, her anxiety for him, which impressed the fear, left him perfectly desperate to be near. The thought of losing them, she said, was her greatest nightmare. (He should not have gone after her bag, she said, yet she kissed them both many times, held them very close, took a week off just to be thankful and relax in Violet City, returning at once and forgetting the camp.) Ever since then the thought of Runa separating for any length or reason felt like plunging into ice water, into the frozen lake of the Path, the surface any moment sealing over him. He would do nothing but wait on her, if he could, never leave her side; and Runa was not against his keeping close, he felt, even his remaining like a Dratini on a sunchair, waiting for his human, which only made it all the more impossible.

Naturally none of it was that bad—the Dark Cave and so on. However he may feel in the moment, he would not actually destroy himself if Runa did not appear (in a couple hours, she said, and back from the Den). As Runa said, over and over, it didn't matter if they lost a battle; her only sadness would be for the pain they suffered, their disappointment; she only asked—for she knew him too well—that he didn't blame himself. That he had a crippling lack of proportion, he already knew. Runa would want him to go more than a moment without thinking of her, for the sake of his own peaceful thinking; so it wouldn't harm him to build a reserve, and try to go a minute without thinking of her. But still, he knew, she felt in a way similarly—worrying sick when they were separated, hiring that Pidgeot trainer to get her and Torus to the Dark Cave sooner, leaving the others in the hotel in Violet City. It delighted her that he kept the notes, took the purpose just as he hoped, as a sign that he cared, even if they were quite redundant. After that he became shameless, kept scraps and things to bring to Runa that she may enjoy them or explain: a newspaper clipping, the caption referring to dragons; a little feather that, as she explained what species it came from, she might happen to fondle his own. For she knew that he was curious about human things, and with that excuse he might watch her even in mundane acts: using her phone, brushing her hair, sitting and reading so that sometimes she laid her hand on him, even though he no longer fit in her lap. (Her glasses no longer fit his head.) It had to be small, of course—none of that head-on-his-middle business that Torus noticed. In the early summer she slept in the open air with them, read until it was dark and, most nights, fell asleep beside him, often with her hair against him; a dozen times or more used him as a pillow; five times actually laid part of his tail over her; and once (it tingled again, every time he remembered), in the middle of the night, as she turned over, kissed him on the cheek, and then went to sleep again.

But the whole of late summer now, towards the tournament, was short of such moments; and now, he felt, it was as if his skin was bubbling up, and every part of him growing colder—the appetite of an excited sickness, he thought. (He ought to think of Runa less, build up his resistance.) Beyond that his diet varied with degree of feeling: first binging on fruit when he felt Runa absent (he looked just the same, Gaia said), and then, in compensation, allowing himself only water and raw vegetables, anything to starve his senses and improve for Runa. But if it was as Clair said … and how did Gaia put it?

—Look, if it's true, it means there's nothing wrong with you. It means you're perfectly fit.

The Thick Fat ability (and how was that an ability?) would explain why eating less did nothing to make him thinner, why fire and ice so little affected him, taking once so many Flamethrowers from Tanwen that she accused him of hiding Occa berries in his cheeks. For a dragon, Clair said, yes, it was an advantage; Gaia said the only thing worse than ice on her skin was frost on her wings, so if Clair was right, she said, there wasn't a Dragonite in the world who'd be hardier against ice than him. Which would be true, he thought, rising out of the water, if by then he could not even fly.

The gym stood on rock overlooking the lake, with flats and faces which no one could reach but the sort of basking Pokémon in the distance: here he would lie out and wait, watching the Dragon Den's entrance across the waters. Humans basked as well, made a thing of it, enjoyed the scenery. The mountains, Runa had said, were lovely and green, surely the most beautiful in all Johto, though she preferred beaches. For him, neither had any colour: a city, a street, was far more interesting than some empty strip of nature. Humans were the opposite: they thought a forest and lake more beautiful than a great glass Goldenrod tower; or a dappled street in Ecruteak, the Bell Tower in the distance; the smell of maple Kalos waffles, fresh from a stall on Olivine beach, melting through the cream as Runa ran back to them with bare feet, smiling and twisting her arm to stop the little trail running down it. (But he must avoid thinking of Runa: he must build a reserve.) The lake, he thought; the mountains. There was something about the air that smelled familiar, something in the water he tasted. Perhaps it was true, what Clair said, that he came from the Dragon's Den, or more likely (as he recalled not a thing about wood, had never seen a tree or flower beyond Mr. Game's bonsai and vases before leaving the Corner) one of the connecting rivers, toward the Ice Path. It was always cold, he remembered—and there were Spheal! That was it: he once saw a horde of Spheal, before the Corner, or one at least, for he said at the time, What's that? And were there humans as well? Oh, why was his memory so poor? He only remembered Mr. Game's prize catcher, balling him with a single Thunder Wave. But did he touch him in the process? Mr. Game never touched them in all the time, put in food through a slot. Was Runa the first human he ever touched?

Perhaps, he thought, Torus heard such thinking from the Den. He turned over. An Alakazam would not be distracted in battle, would he? Still they hardly spoke after a year and a half since the Corner, though Torus spoke to Runa all the time. (They were in a league above him.) But Torus was the sort of companion she deserved, being so clever.

Suppose that they didn't win the tournament, he thought. (It was absurd, really, to think they had a chance.) Suppose Runa saw them lose, as most trainers did, in the first or second round, all fainted one after the other. It would not mean that she was wrong: the Alakazam endorsed her, all the proof she needed. But there was Tanwen, saying their composition was weak: fire, psychic, electric, and two dragons. But what was missing? If Tanwen knew anything, he thought, it was battling.

—We want fire, ice, water, electric, ground, and a ghost or dark or fairy.

Without those types, or were they attacks? she said any team would fail. That was how Manda won: Apollo and sometimes Nero for fire (Nero was more to soften and test them, often fainting just to snatch an advantage); Diana for electricity; Jeanmarie for water and ice (they were attacks); Apollo for ground by earthquakes, the same as Gaia—the strength of dragons being that they could cover many types, even if not as powerfully. Then Manda always transferred two from Hoenn to make up six, drawn from close to a dozen well-trained auxiliaries, changing to fit her competition. That was tactics, Tanwen said: that was the sort of resource Runa had available, if she wanted.

But battling, Runa said, was only to grow. There were no numbers, no types—only individuals; which sort of talk repulsed a born battler like Tanwen, he thought: —It's a bunch of flowers, she said. And that was horrible, her own Pokémon not believing in her—her first, that was, since losing her older team (still no hint of that, he thought, in anything Runa said). Why should Runa get the team which fought amongst itself? Even teams of all wilders did better; coming together suddenly, in short order they applied to battle and took a real pride in their humans; and here Tanwen denounced her, and Dyna lost interest, and Rita did nothing at all. It was not her philosophy at fault, no: it was nature's fault, that Pokémon must fight to grow properly, had to battle and harm one another, for humans didn't need it. Nobody was born to fight. Nature follows experience. (That was a correction on Runa's draft, experience overwriting nurture.) Was it really that, he asked Torus, all down to experience? Torus only said it was a difficult matter. Alakazam reached such a state of understanding that they saw things which escaped every other, things which even he perhaps could not explain in a natural lifetime to another Pokémon. Was that why he didn't answer the question, that it was too difficult? So it must be, to philosophise about the many, for Runa's process was scattered; there were notes all about; the whole thing needed, she said, the connecting thread, what perhaps she felt but didn't yet see, and she didn't want Torus's help in it, for to explain too much at once, Runa said, was to ruin another's discovery. (Perhaps that was why Torus never explained it.) An Alakazam was the sort of mind one wanted about if they needed to change the world, but not, perhaps, if one wanted to be original, or it would only be following a lead. She had to develop that ability, Runa said; she couldn't lead a school without training herself. Then there would be nothing to stop her philosophy. He would watch her change all of human thinking in a stroke, and, as if Runa now stood up and touched his neck, ready to strike into the Den's mouth, ready to advance her mission, he raised his head. But the water lapped against the rock, and somewhere in the mountains a Spearow cried. He lay out again; for to rely on any but herself, he thought, on such Pokémon as him, when in the entire world only Runa—oh! there was a flash on the water. And there, as he turned to look, there was Torus sitting cross-legged behind him on the rock!

In a moment Torus raised his spoons and moved them outward from his body, as if expanding the edge of a sphere, and a green light passed over his body, shining on the edges of his skin, so that what appeared to be marks from battle began to fade away: the recover, wiping out all injury. Oh, he thought, but Gaia had to hurt all over! had to be getting potions from Runa right now, as Torus left to report. But why stop for him? To Torus his mind must be repulsive, some geyser shooting scum for miles, visible to any psychic, though Torus only sat, as if to say he was immune to such simple thinking—But here he was, he thought, thinking only of himself as they had just finished battle!

"[Did … did you win?]" he said.

* * *

_Split for length (and cliffhanger!)_—_scene continues in next part_


	12. Level 45 - Blackthorn (Scene 2)

_Scene continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Torus nodded.

It ought to be rushing through him, this relief, Runa's record unbroken, the final badge, and it did—but he should have been there! If it was bound to win, he shouldn't have quit, but stayed beside her. (But of course, had he fought, it wouldn't have been a win, and he would only have proved Clair right.)

"[Did Gaia faint?]" he said. Torus shook his head—her record kept also, then. "[Did she knock out Clair's Dragonite?]" No: it was Torus who saved it. Gaia was nearly fainted, perhaps, but Torus saved the match, recovered many times, followed some amazing strategy which exhausted Clair's team.

"[Are they coming back now?]" he said. Torus nodded.

That was all, he thought; Torus could leave to tell the rest, if he had not seen them already. But Torus remained.

He lay down. How simple, he thought, his thinking had to be! as clearly drawn out to Torus as a flat skin, all cut through the white at length. He hid himself from the others, kept a good handle on it (so a little investigation told him, that when he blushed, felt his whole face burning, it was hardly visible in a mirror, that when Runa kissed his nose outside a room and he asked Dyna if she could feel his heartbeat, gave some excuse about palpitations, she grumbled and said she felt nothing, that he was too clammy and fat)—but Torus knew everything, saw every drop: ten thousand thoughts of Runa every day that the Alakazam's perfect memory could not forget. What was it like to remember everything? Having that he would surely go crazy. But perhaps Torus could forget, if he liked; perhaps he could avoid reading thoughts if he wanted.

And what did it matter any more? he thought. He had dodged the issue for so long around Torus that he looked like a fool pretending. The Alakazam had just saved everything again, so why pretend as if he played him? He ought to speak; ought to say out loud the thing. In a year and a half, so far as he knew, Torus never said a word about his sickness to Runa.

He said, "[You can read everything, can't you?]"

Or was that the sort of slip, he thought, Torus wanted to justify acting? But Torus only looked, and, as if settling from a great stretch he leaned back and said, in his weak and gravelly voice:

"[I receive. Thought radiates.]"

He so rarely heard Torus speaking that it still flustered him—terrifying, he felt it, to hold the attention of one so abominably clever! To Torus, even Runa had to be simple.

Torus said, "[Simple is a question whose answer is a nod or shake. By a nod, I would not have answered accurately. By a shake, you would have taken the wrong meaning. To answer, I must speak. As to why so rarely, that lies in why you fear to ask questions.]"

But, he thought, no amount of time would remove that uneasiness of having his thoughts actually seen by another, as if read off a page, without even being certain what they were himself! "[So you hear everything?]" he said.

And Torus covered his nose with a spoon, as Dyna may, and said, "[Thought is a process whose effects cast outward, observing which I may parse the underlying thinking. To mask this effect requires special processes, which the majority of minds lack.]" Was that Dark types, he thought, whom psychics couldn't read? or perhaps some kind of shield or mental training—certainly not the sort of putting on a show that he did. So it was certain, he thought, that Torus knew everything: how he thought of Runa, even dreamed of her perhaps, how he felt as she touched him, how—

"[Yes,]" Torus said. "[I have known since the Corner.]"

"[And—]" he said, and swallowed—he could not quite breathe—his vision was turning to spots. Torus watching him in the Corner; Torus knowing him for an anthropophile since before the Winter World Championship, he thought, before even he understood. "[And, and Runa—?]"

"[What Runa thinks,]" Torus said, "[I will not tell you. What you think, I will not tell her. That is the psychic's rule. Or do you suppose it would ever end if psychics let out secrets, and the ambitious sought to use us to gain advantage? Then we would have to project our power and control others for our own protection, and that is not so simple as keeping secrets. And you already understand how such shortcuts truncate the development of minds. Do not fear, then, that psychics may reveal your secrets to other kinds.]"

So Torus kept some secrets, he thought, but revealed others: a society of psychics, collaborating to protect liberty! Did Runa know? But surely she was even involved, he thought—had to be, when her whole philosophy was about protecting others, and letting them develop their own thinking. But this explained why Torus didn't bother him about his sickness; and if there were others who shared it, he thought, they too were left to their devices—if, he thought, there were any others like him.

"[Of others like you,]" Torus said, "[how many do you suppose there are?]"

But, he thought, presumably there had to be others—there was no reason he ought to be so different. "[I … I don't know,]" he said. "[Just a few, I guess.]"

Torus said, "[Shall I tell you?]"

He straightened up. Of course, an Alakazam had to know: one only had to pass within miles of a city, perhaps, and like a radio tower … But didn't it break the rule?

Torus adjusted the spoon on his nose and said, "[Remember Runa's mathematics. If I tell you a quality occurs within a set at such a rate, you learn about the set but not its elements. That is the idea of statistics. If you know a population tends towards but is not defined by some behaviour, you gain no certain knowledge of a member you meet. The expectation that individuals will follow some statistical trend of an abstract group containing them is fallacious reasoning, and the cause of most conflict. But to speak of trends makes no individual assumptions, and cannot plausibly be said to betray secrets. So I may tell you how many have this quality of yours, both in Pokémon and in human counterparts, if it interests you. Do you wish to know?]"

He would have to hear that all again later, he thought. "[Tell me,]" he said.

"[Few enough that a group of hundreds would often lack one,]" Torus said. "[Many enough that in one day in Castelia Central Plaza, you may expect to see pass a thousand.]"

That they were rare, he expected; that there could be a thousand or more in a single city, however, was incredible. How could such a thing keep hidden? But of course, he thought, it didn't change the matter. It only meant he wasn't alone in being sick, loving the wrong type: it didn't excuse the thing at all.

"[Do you think,]" Torus said, "[that humans and Pokémon are very different?]"

What was he getting at? he thought. "[But of course they're different!]" he said.

Torus said, "[Tell me how.]"

He started, and paused. What could he say, he thought, that Torus did not know better about?

"[I know less than you imagine,]" Torus said. "[Is such a question so simple, if even your experience of humans cannot answer it?]"

But this trick of reading his thoughts, of answering things he didn't say—!

"[But your thinking is clear,]" Torus said, removing the spoon. "[You often think this, that I mean to control things, when I am only pleased to see things passing. Consider my view. I observe thought itself, through another sense. I observe not that minds incidentally have certain qualities in common, but that certain qualities emerge necessarily on account of their thinking. The objects of thinking are connections of mind—those threads and bundles which non-psychics perceive as ideas but which psychics perceive in a sensate way. In your view, most mental processes are subliminal; in ours, they are mechanical. These neuromechanics, as any psychic would tell you, are the same in both humans and Pokémon. That is what I mean by the universality of mind, which I described in other words in Runa's writing.

"[Such mechanics apply also to romantic feeling, which is but another action of mind. Here one mind conceives of another, in such a way that contemplation triggers feelings. The mechanics of conceiving of minds is the same in humans and Pokémon. The generation of feeling is the same. The entangling of the two is the same. And the manner of selective preference is the same, where most minds consider only certain kinds of romantic object, the biological basis of which is clear. But all minds being essentially similar, as psychics perceive, to select romantic partners by species is but a product of practical biology, not an understanding of mind. You are, then, on account of your feelings as different from a human as you and Dyna are for preferring sweet and bitter foods. Do you understand?]"

He misjudged Torus, he thought; he ought to apologise. But was this the sort of speech that Torus gave to Runa, and she understood at once? He followed the ending, however—that he couldn't miss! But—"[But it doesn't change anything,]" he said. For he would take it, yes, such an idea as that he wasn't unnatural, but what about the great majority? What about Runa? "[It's … Other people don't think like that though, do they? You know they don't! They'd say I'm sick and, and shameful.]"

Now Torus rubbed his throat, having spoken longer, perhaps, than such a psychic was ever used to, and—oh! with the psychic voice, he said, [Tell me, Shadow, do you say that some things are within your control, and others are not?]

What was the point of such a question, he thought, when the answer was very clear? Or perhaps there was a trick in it, some kind of persuasion—

[No, it is straightforward. Establishing the fundamentals in any search for understanding is often the best first action. This is how I proceed with Runa, so that our understandings may compare. Answer these questions and we will see what follows, and whether your thoughts are in contradiction. Do you say that some things are within your control, and others are not?]

"[Y— Yes.]"

[And that outside our control is that which we have no power to affect?]

"[I guess.]"

[By definition. But let us reason, not guess. Do you say that you had control over the conditions of your birth?]

"[Oh, no.]"

[So that is beyond your control.]

"[Right.]"

[And your nature is a thing partially set at birth, insofar as genetics affects it. Or do you say that this had no effect?]

"[Oh, it does! But Runa says we can change our natures, too.]"

[Perhaps so, but let us leave it for the moment. Do we say that nature is affected by circumstance and environment?]

"[Well, yes.]"

[Did you have control over your environment, prior to arriving in Game Corner?]

"[I … I guess I could have left the cave, or wherever.]"

[But the circumstance, that this cave was a target to Mr. Game's prize-catchers, was not within your control.]

"[Well, no.]"

[So you had control over whether you were captured, in that you may have earlier left the cave. But you did not have choice, in that you could not have consciously chosen to avoid capture without suspecting it would happen. Is this it?]

"[I guess that's right.]"

[Now, Shadow, do you say that there are such things as pride and shame?]

"[Uh, yes.]"

[What would you call pride? Take a moment to consider. Is there a short way that comes to mind?]

"[I … I don't know.]"

[Very well. Without digressing too far, would you say that, whatever else it may be, pride involves a kind of credit given to oneself? That is, to have pride involves believing that some quality of oneself, some act or trait, is worthy of credit, and giving that credit to oneself.]

"[That sounds right.]"

[And similarly, shame is something opposite to this. It involves a kind of reproach of oneself, the belief that some personal act or quality is base and worthy of ridicule.]

"[Okay.]"

[Tell me, Shadow, what sorts of thing do we say are pride-worthy? Do we say that to battle well and win victory, if victory is a good thing, is worthy of pride?]

"[Oh, of course!]"

[And to be a battler? Suppose that a Pokémon is bred or captured and then inducted by their trainer into battling. Is such a battler capable of pride?]

"[Why not?]"

[I ask you. But allow me to ask another. I think that it does not displease you, Shadow, that you are a Dragonair. Do you think that to be a Dragonair, or a dragon generally, is a thing you may hold in pride?]

"[Why not, though? Runa would say, I should be proud of who I am.]"

[Has Runa ever said that you should be proud of being a dragon?]

"[Well, no. But can't I? Is it— Is that because, compared to Gaia—]"

[Do not lose the focus, Shadow. Answer this: May you feel pride that you were born?]

"[I … I don't know.]"

[Consider this. May you take pride in having been captured and sent to Game Corner?]

"[Oh, no.]"

[Why not?]

"[Because I didn't have anything to do with it. I was even too slow. I couldn't stop it!]"

[So it was beyond your choice to affect, then. And this prevents you from taking pride in such a thing. Is this it?]

"[Right.]"

[Again, then, may you feel pride in being born?]

"[N-no.]"

[Then may you take pride in your species, or your genetics?]

"[N-no, not them, either.]"

[And so on, then, for all such things beyond our choice to affect. But this is another thing we have discovered about pride: something outside our own choices cannot be a source of it. Is this how it appears to be?]

"[I guess so.]"

[So though you are, I think, pleased to be born, you cannot take pride in it. And though it pleased you to be born a Dratini, a very rare and powerful species of Pokémon, as a thing you did not choose, you cannot rightly be prideful of it. Correct?]

"[Well, I never really was, though.]"

[As you say. But consider this: Can you, Shadow, as Runa's Pokémon, have pride in being a battler?]

"[I … I had a part in it, didn't I?]"

[Indeed. That is a difference between you and one forcibly inducted into battling. For such Pokémon, to take pride in being a battler itself seems to be impossible. They may take pride in battling well, in great effort or dedication, or in personal records, all things which they may consciously affect. But if they take pride in being a battler itself, they give credit to themselves where none is due, as they had no choice in the matter.]

"[I never thought of it that way. But … it's not bad to battle, is it?]"

[That is another investigation. For now, we have some better idea of pride. Let us examine shame similarly. Perhaps you can already see a conclusion. Suppose there is a Pokémon whose nature is weak with regard to battling, one born of a species not so powerful—a Sunkern, for instance. Is that shameful, to be so weak?]

"[No—that's horrible!]"

[So if this Sunkern fails to succeed in battling, despite making great effort, we would not say that this is shameful.]

"[It's not. They're doing their best!]"

[Yet if this were a Pokémon with a powerful batting nature, say a Moltres or a Darkrai, who despite wanting victory and glory and to lead a team makes little effort, and amounts to little, is this shameful or not?]

"[It's shameful. They're hurting the team!]"

[It is shameful, then, to battle poorly through lack of effort, given ability; but given effort, to battle poorly through lack of ability is not shameful.]

"[It's not, no.]"

[It seems then that shame, like pride, depends on choice: a thing is not shameful unless we have choice to affect it, just as a thing is not pride-worthy which does not follow our choices. Is this how it appears to be, Shadow?]

"[It looks so, yes.]"

[Let us return then to nature. You chose to become a battler, and this has affected your nature via experience and your intentional effort to improve your character. You did not choose to be born a Dratini, but rather incidentally are so, and this also affects your nature. And we earlier agreed that environment and circumstance may affect nature, for they affect what experiences are available to us. Hence all effect on nature is either intentional, incidental, or accidental—this third being accidental circumstance, which incidentally emerges from intentional actions but is outside one's capacity to choose. Do you understand?]

"[I … I think so. It's all choice, you mean, or, or not.]"

[Recalling what we said, can something incidental to us be a cause of pride or shame?]

"[No.]"

[But something accidental, which perhaps followed our choices but was outside our awareness, can this be a cause of either?]

"[N— No.]"

[But things which are so by your intention may beget a pride or shame. Is this so?]

"[I guess that's it.]"

[Tell me, Shadow, of which of these kinds is your love of humans?]

"[Oh! But I don't— I mean, it's not that simple!]"

[Is it not? Did your love of humans come from wilful action?]

"[No! If I could, I'd choose— I mean, I think I'd choose …]"

[But these other causes, your birth and environment, and the circumstances leading to your arrival in Game Corner, were these not beyond your choices?]

"[I guess, but—]"

[There is no guess, Shadow. Even were such an attraction wrong, a moral question which we have not even tried to examine, it would remain impossible to feel shame for having it, for you had no choice in the matter. Do you understand?]

"[I … I do.]"

[So this sickness, as you think it, being either incidental or accidental nature, but in either case outside your control—is it shameful?]

He couldn't answer, he felt. This was all to make excuses, justifying himself—

[So if one calls it shameful for you to love Runa, they are not understanding correctly.]

He looked across the lake, felt the wind pick up for a moment, saw the water beating on the rock: some great assembly of natural forces, he imagined, atoms and molecules bashing together, which Torus calculated quite as easily as mathematical equations on a card. Was this how the universe appeared to him, to all psychics perhaps, everything falling into place in a line, all difficult matters like right and wrong and how to think things through being trivial? Was that why they all seemed so stoic, as they had nothing left to worry them? That was their special power, after all: all other minds showing up brightly around them, they spent their whole lives watching good and bad thinking, so that how to think rightly was always clear.

Torus looked to the side, toward the Den, and—was he smiling?—said, in spoken words, "[You exaggerate, but in the correct direction. The dissimilarity between psychics and non-psychics is greater than between most humans and Pokémon. You may say there is a topological difference. This is why I take the name Torus, as a little joke.]"

No one really understood, he thought, how high above others the psychics were. Torus had to see everything, how they only put on shows to hide themselves; that Tanwen argued, perhaps, because she felt insecure; that Dyna sassed because she felt insecure; that Rita, even Gaia, perhaps, appeared to be relaxed or uncaring because really they too were afraid for their quality. Perhaps everyone was so; and as he did not hide it, he was ridiculed by the Dratini, by the girls, only because they saw one who knew his own bad quality and, to hide a fear for their own, they teased him. No wonder then that Torus preferred Runa, who after all had none of that … though hadn't she said it just that morning? She said that she had lost her calm, and snapped at Clair like a child. But that was Runa's quality, and why Torus liked her: she saw things nearly as psychics did, as close to their league as any non-psychic could be, and took to changing her own nature; whereas next to her he was like a clod of dirt, sticking to her shoe.

He looked out across to the mouth of the cave, where, he supposed, in a minute Runa and Gaia would appear. "[So if I'd never met Runa,]" he said, "[or, or any human? I'd be normal, you're saying. I wouldn't be an … accident.]"

"[Had you never in your life encountered a human,]" Torus said, "[such feelings would of course be impossible. Such feelings cannot form without some first notion of their object. You might incidentally have avoided such a thing by lacking any first experience with humans. But to do so intentionally requires first an idea of the thing, in order to choose to avoid it, which counters the purpose. As for what could be otherwise, this is a strange wonder. You cannot excise such feelings and remain Shadow. You are your connections of mind.]"

Across the lake he saw Runa, riding on Gaia at the throat of the cave, heading toward them on the water: back from defending his honour, as Gaia had put it, back from winning the final badge. And how at once he felt seeing her, Torus had to know: how he saw himself flying into her arms, how he saw Runa fling herself on top of him, hands on his face, smothering him, and he obliging her to create a nest, covering every inch of her. And after everything he suspected in Torus, the psychic only wanted for his good, only understood his true condition better than anyone. But all the same, a psychic might do so much more!—might tell him, in fact, what Runa would say if she knew, if not for these psychic rules.

"[And you know,]" he said, for after all, Torus saw everything, observed everything (a thousand like him, going about), "[you know, I'd never hurt Runa. I don't want— I can't help it, is all. I just want to be near. It's not hurting her, is it? She … she wouldn't hate me if she knew?]" For wasn't it a part of her philosophy, even, that such a love was natural, humans and Pokémon being equal? Torus wouldn't say, of course: it broke the rule. Yet would it hurt, he thought, just the once, if nobody else ever knew?

Torus said, "[The rule is not only for our sake. You wonder whether Runa would abandon you, if she knew. Perhaps there is an answer. Suppose this answer distressed you, and worsened your condition. Suppose it excited you, but, in your eagerness, you impressed too far on Runa and distressed her. To feel as you do is not itself shameful; the choices it leads you to may be. But if I told you whether to act or not, I would serve to truncate your mental development. Pain and difficulty are the accidental products of free experience, yet often they prove ideal in the cultivation of mind, more than the easy courses a psychic might offer.. It is precisely the point that you choose your own actions. In any case, Shadow, you are not the only troubled mind. Why should I treat your mental development whilst thousands of others suffer far worse conditions? Not if every psychic in the world acted together could we address more than a small minority. We may treat major symptoms and aid society, but we are not in the business of making minds.]"

But Torus was right, he thought, laying his head on the rock. What strength of stomach psychics had to have! seeing every sort of sickness, after all, people far worse off than him, and yet remaining unaffected. Any other Pokémon would go mad, hearing that. Yet didn't it harm society to ignore them, to let sick and rotten people run about, even those about to commit a crime? Perhaps that was thought turning to action, no longer profiting from choice, and the psychics could act just as any Jenny would; and presumably they had a method, the Alakazam being chief organisers, an extraordinary league of psychics. It was incredible they even bothered with battling, some romp in a field, a spar, a—how did he once imagine it? heading for Ecruteak City Gym, passing the Kimono Hall—a show.

[May I remind you?]

But that would take getting used to, now that things were crossed with Torus! Of course Torus would remember: Alakazam remembered everything.

[You were reflecting on Runa's philosophy. You reasoned, seeing Tanwen and Gaia, that the affectations of battling were a show, and that those who believe they are their characters lack a true understanding. This is a perspective which many battlers and trainers never reach in their careers, rather seeing contest as an end in itself. It fits Runa's philosophy, that battling is for growth and not victory. And it is to spread such understanding that I help her.]

Runa and Gaia were a minute from the rock. She waved, and he rose up; the ball of his neck bobbed and fell. But she was remarkable, even Torus thought—a philosophy worthy for an Alakazam to follow. She imagined a way of life for all Pokémon and humans, of friendship, of shared community: monism, she called it, the philosophy of value and agency to mon, Pokémon freed from pockets. And she believed it, truly, to such an extent that there wasn't another human like her, or else wouldn't Torus have known it?

"[She's really special, isn't she?]" he said. "[I mean, in statistics.]"

The Alakazam took up his spoons and said, "[She is an outlier, in her ways.]" He teleported away as they arrived.


	13. Level 50 - Silver Town (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 50**

"_Runa_! _Runa_!"

It was not quite human, he thought, when they spoke so many at once. There was something ugly in it; something less thinking, more sensitive to changes in atmosphere. Runa didn't like it. It reminded her of Hoenn, perhaps, of foreign crowds, people observing and judging from a distance; wealthy and powerful persons coming to visit, and her family instructing her how to act, to perform graces, imitations, affectations, as if (so he saw it, the young Runa in a flowery yellow dress) the worth of a person was in her dressings, so that she had better put on her best. All to mollify, he thought, those who expected it, those who lacked surety otherwise.

The crowd rose and cheered as the Nidoking fell faint, Gaia sweeping up, letting away the waters below her: there was the ugliness, he felt, a malicious joy; a desire in some, perhaps, to see a Pokémon end up injured and all the Chansey and Machoke rush out; and then the reports, taking delight in a victory, taking pleasure in a loss. The stadium was fifty thousand at least, and if it seemed every one of them was up and shouting _Runa_! _Runa_! there were some who only said it, he knew, because it happened she won some battles; because she was very famous; and some because, and by far the majority, they wanted to see the spectacle, the battle that would come next, what they called the one to see: the two sisters, the Pondelores.

—It's just a part of building things up. It's just how the industry is.

Runa had been mentioned in the papers since the day she arrived in Johto, but only once the Silver Conference began did it seem that she became famous throughout the region. As trainers let out their Pokémon, issued commands, Runa said nothing, only stood as she always did—and whether by wilful or simple ignorance, the people talking didn't understand, called it arrogance, seemed to forget that she spent years training them, almost two full years on the routes. —Don't worry about them, Runa said, but how could she let it pass, such horrible things they said? Was this what Apollo and the rest put up with? Was it even worth winning the championship, if this was the prize? They ought to thank her for showing up flaws in battling which the rest assumed as necessary. The highest innovation most battlers could show was a combination of two attacks, or the clever use of environment. Why so much praise, he asked, for the trainers, and forgetting all the Pokémon, many of whom didn't even have names? It wasn't just. But he had to get over it, Gaia said.

—Even if they don't name everyone, people recognise Apollo and the rest. Just try and enjoy the experience. Besides, maybe you'll evolve in battle—no one will forget that! (As if, he thought, he needed that.)

The first round went quickly, a team of only bird Pokémon which they and Dyna could counter. (That cry of the Pidgeotto, he thought, falling at his thunderbolt, the trainer running over, their dream ended in the very first round … but he had to dismiss it, had to be unaffected for Runa.) The second round was rougher, nearly knocked out by that Primeape in Close Combat. Had he evolved, he thought, he could have managed it, but Runa had to pull him out, had to let Gaia take a free hit. (He wasn't up to scratch; he trained for speed, and was lacking otherwise.) Runa benched him for the third—a dragon trainer, Runa said, who knew them and expected it. She wouldn't say the truth, that he never got the hang of dragonfire. Gaia's did very well, and she kept looking back at him as if to say, You see? With three wins, the press increased their stories: the champion's sister, going all the way to challenge her for the title. Then Manda gave her interview.

—Yes, we're looking forward to it, if it should happen we'll meet. We look forward to every battle, especially here in Silver Town, where we can test ourselves against Johto's finest. Unity of the Indigo and Johto Leagues is what makes this the most important battling event in the world, so it was only fair that we entered the tournament, to prove ourselves not just to Kanto, but to Johto as well. If Runa defeats us, we'll look forward to meeting her again in the championship match. But whatever the outcome, I know we'll remain united, just the same.

Behind her Apollo and the others had looked very grave. The press called Manda a traditionalist, yet she broke every rule to run as a contestant, even though she was already champion, and the whole Conference bent backwards for her! Tanwen thought it very clever, solidifying at a stroke her reputation in Johto whilst knocking out Runa before the final. The battling industry cried out that if Manda won all her matches, there would no longer be a championship match, and then what about their broadcasts? but Manda said that they would drop out if they reached the semifinal, shooing their next in to the final round, where they'd either lose or at once battle Manda—proof enough of their legitimacy for all in Johto who wanted to split the leagues.

But when in the third round Gaia defeated a Flygon and a Dragonair without aid (by far the best of them! by far the first), even Tanwen couldn't criticise; and as the screens showed Runa only standing by, as the enemy trainer fell to his knees, the press began to turn. So Runa gave interviews, allowed pictures. Video clips with everyone about (he hiding behind Gaia, behind Runa) went up on all the screens throughout Johto, he knew, and beyond—so too the editorialising. Keeping It in the Family? went one headline, as if it were all a plot, Runa and Manda colluding to keep the title in perpetuity; but hardly anyone doubted that Runa had quality, though how much or in what they couldn't agree. Experience helped Runa to handle the press, to satisfy them without going into how she couldn't answer certain questions, how she had to confer with her Pokémon. So she took the brunt of it, he knew, let them sap her energy to spare the team.

The fourth round was much harder, a whole clutch of elemental Pokémon, the sort whom young trainers received at the start of their careers, as Runa was with Tanwen. And Tanwen, now, was getting more urgent, and wilder: she knew it was all but impossible they reached the final, now, running against Manda in the sixth. She was full of confidence the day they arrived, saying

—In two weeks, we'll be champions!

and so burning with excitement till the morning, when the screens all put up the branches, and they found they would meet with Manda in the quarterfinal, assuming they won all their battles. Then Tanwen was very quiet, finally said it changed nothing; but everyone saw her return to that thinking, how she kept calling it predictable, that they should have designed the whole team to counter Manda, who was always going to be the final barrier. So Tanwen decided, arbitrarily, that to reach the quarterfinal was not enough, but only the semifinal would do, the top four teams, as before they battled there'd be a documentary on them, which she took as necessary to demonstrate herself. If they made the semifinal, she'd consider staying; if not, she said, she'd have to review her options.

They were fine company for her, he thought, these ugly, mercenary crowds, who turned on those they supported at a drop. The higher one rose in the tournaments—the top sixteen, the top eight—the more ruthless one's opponents tended to be, this being where the most driven, after all, tended by their efforts to concentrate. But not everyone, he thought, looking over the crowd, felt so differently from Runa. The Silver Conference was full of spectators and trainers and organisers who each showed a love of Pokémon in their own way. For every team, there was a story: coming to meet; forming friendships; trials and victories together, each helping each other to reach the top; and finally Silver Town, the Silver Conference. And then—and then—to have it all dashed at the first round, or the second! (That Pidgeotto, he thought.) They had stepped on the dreams of dozens already, not like in the fields where everyone was learning. In a minute, when Gaia finished, they would have knocked out five whole teams, ended their dreams as champions: so it had been for all but a few of two hundred, some eight remaining after all six rounds. Tanwen would call him absurd: either they were knocked out themselves, or they knocked out another, dreams being cut off in either case, so why did he worry? Would he rather lose? It didn't help the team at all if he hesitated. But suppose they failed at the next round, at Manda; suppose the team collapsed, and it all became for nothing? The other trainers, their Pokémon, had all looked so crestfallen when knocked out each by Runa. Battling, he thought, was no show to them.

On the bench beside him, Rita said, "[O, they do make a pair.]"

Gaia and the Tyranitar broke their grapple, and his Thrash continued, she holding up her barrier again. The crowd loved it, and it would show on all the screens later as the final highlight, Gaia and the thrashing Tyranitar, standing a little taller than him, a little darker shade of green. The battle was already over, and only the Tyranitar didn't see it: once he tired out she would throw a wall of water from the ring lake all over him, or fly into the air as the ground quaked under, finishing him as he was too dizzy to stand. The trainer had chosen a clumsy attack, and now his Pokémon suffered, unable to battle otherwise. (They gave Runa's method a name: adaptive training.) And perhaps somewhere was watching Mr. Game—and why should he remember him now?—seeing that this was the little pink Dratini who, if he had his way, would still be in a cage in the Corner, drawing in people to cheat. She had become a great Pokémon, he thought, equal to Apollo or the other record-holders; and now, she was Runa's only hope that they reached the final, and won her parents' approval.

Gaia pushed and brought her arms upward: the ground cracked and threw the Tyranitar back, and water shot up through the earth, a wall of water and rock held above her, a combination 'Quake and Surf. But Gaia didn't care about winning itself: it was her duty always to try hardest, she said, and still she had her dream to be the number-one Dragonite, as she said in the cage almost three years ago, but she did not really feel it as before. She fought for Runa; but she did not even read her philosophy. Why then, he wondered, did she try so hard to win?

The water landed, and the Tyranitar fell onto the ground; the trainer, he saw, looked away.

"_Ru-_na! _Ru-_na!"

* * *

Gaia stayed with Runa to fetch supplies, and Dyna lead them back to the cabin to catch the report.

"[It's really needy of them,]" Dyna said, trying to press the button on the remote as she failed to climb the sofa facing the screen. "[All the best stuff is right after, you know? What if we want to watch? It's our battle! Why should we have to miss it?]"

Tanwen sat on her sofa and said, "[It's called live coverage. It's hardly a real report without our interview, is it?]"

Dyna said, "[Whatever. They should just show the loser till we get here.]"

After a match, Tanwen had said, the refrigerator was for battlers only; and until Runa put him in another battle, he had no excuse to be hungry, nor to poke through every time they reached the cabin. He closed the door and—oh! Tanwen looked at him.

"[I assume you're fetching us something,]" she said. "[How kind. Something dry, will you?]"

"[Key limes!]" Dyna said, still flicking through the channels.

"[Sorbet,]" Rita said.

No doubt Torus could say something, he thought, as he removed the bottles of ginger ale—some speech that persuaded Tanwen not to doubt the team; but the Alakazam hardly spoke during the tournament, and perhaps, in the psychic view, that constituted interference in her freedom to make errors. What kind of friendship or teamwork was that? But now the food and bottles levitated, as Torus, not looking at him, took them over, placing the limes in a bowl for Dyna, who was too fixed on the screen to notice, still searching for—oh! that was the word Pondelore on the screen's caption. In a few moments Dyna restored the report; and seizing the bowl she told them to shush up, and jumped back on the sofa, so that for a moment Rita beside her airborne.

Tanwen said, "[Is it Runa or Manda?]"

"[Runa,]" Dyna said. (They hadn't said it yet, he thought.)

There were five on a panel, the commentators, including one who had interviewed Runa before, all wrapping up some conversation, and he recognised that other man—Dyna hissed—one of those who'd been dismissing Runa for the entire tournament. They laughed; some sort of agreement to disagree was reached. It did not seem, he thought, to be anything to do with Runa. Then the camera changed to focus on the host, who turned and began a new segment. He said:

"Now some would say that for a reigning champion to battle through the entire Silver Conference just to prove herself to the Johto League is unorthodox. That said, most agree it's nothing compared to another contestant in the tournament, one very close to that champion, who just minutes ago won her fifth-round battle to reach the quarterfinal—a sign, many would say, of an enduring talent in the family, or what some have called an unfair advantage. Whilst the Champion Manda, who spent six years in Kanto defeating every registered gym before winning the title, is well known for her stoicism, the rise of her sister Runa, younger by as many years and having spent only two seasons in Johto, seems outright impatient by comparison. In that time, she's flipped rules and ticked noses all the way from Cianwood City to New Bark Town, following a style of training so radically different that some people are saying she's the real family talent, and perhaps the only trainer today with a chance of unseating her sister. Marjorie reports."

Following a style, he thought, as if she'd only read it in a book! They made her sound like some sort of brat who didn't listen. The screen went to a clip of Runa and the team, waiting in the wings before one of their battles; Dyna leaned forward, caught her bowl before it spilt.

A lady's voice said, "Runa began her Pokémon journey two and a half years ago at the age of thirteen and six months—older than most new trainers in Johto, but following what many suspect to be an extensive period of training at her family's estate in Hoenn. After a year of travelling in Johto and training her team, she began to challenge gyms, collecting her first badge in Olivine City, in which battle her widely recognised Dragonite, Gaia, first evolved. Three months ago, Runa won her final badge in Blackthorn City, where Gaia, in a battle which raised her to the top twenty of all Dragonite, defeated the leader Clair's fifth-ranked Dragonite. With her team almost fully evolved, she battles now, in Silver Town, hoping to add to that record."

Tanwen folded her arms. It was just their way, Runa had said, to focus on one because it made a story. They didn't mention him, either—the one who put the 'almost' in the team's evolution—and there, he saw, as it cut to Runa, speaking where they had stopped her in the road, there he was hiding behind her legs, all slack and pallid, he thought, clipped off by the screen's edge.

On the screen Runa said, "My philosophy of training is that every Pokémon is their own person, and it's a trainer's job to help them discover who they're meant to be. Battling is one way to do it, but it depends on the Pokémon what's best. If a Pokémon wants to battle, that's fine; if not, people oughtn't force them into it, any more than parents ought to force their children to compete in sports, or to follow a life they don't want to lead."

It went to another clip—that was all. But they were not being fair: they cut her off, from the middle of a much larger point. She had said that Pokémon had evolved for battling in just the same way that humans had evolved for hunting and gathering: once a part of their nature, yes, but with civilisation, one no longer necessary for growth. So in humans, they spent all that energy on other things, on running or throwing, or martial arts, or mental games like chess and Voltorb Flip, and those were called sports and entertainments; but where humans had many options for what to do, Pokémon were stuck as only battlers, or livestock, or power sources, so that even Pokémon who were cleverer than humans, such as Alakazam, were hardly present in society. She gave her whole philosophy, in short, had to twice finish her point over the reporter's next question; and yet the way they cut it, anyone might point to her and say she only thought of herself as a parent, raising children, all removed from the realities of difficult choices—only choosing what seemed pretty and pleasant, some rich girl removed from reality. The screen showed more clips: the team in battles, on the roads of Silver Town, Gaia at attention, Rita standing for the camera, and now him, close beside her with every fold showing as she bought them food at one of the stalls, as if to say, She lets them eat cake, as if they used him to attack her directly!

The lady's voice said, "Runa made her travels with the support of her family, the Pondelores, the famous Pokémon magnates of Hoenn region, but it's no secret that they don't see eye to eye. Often referred to as the least pondelorian of Pondelores, Runa has eschewed the breeding programmes and strict regimens that have produced so many champion trainers in her family, following instead a more laissez-faire approach, leaving her family's Hoenn estate with only her Typhlosion, then a Cyndaquil, building the rest of her team from the wilds of Johto."

(Dyna stuffed a handful of limes into her mouth, and said, "[What'sh lesha-thingy mean?]"

"[Lackadaisical,]" Rita said.)

"Runa's style of battling and her disregard for trainers' etiquette has given her a reputation as a rule-breaker: whatever their condition, she has always refused to keep her Pokémon in balls, and never commands them in battle, leaving each to their own direction, sometimes to the amusement but always ultimately the frustration of every trainer she's encountered, as to this day she remained undefeated."

(Dyna ate another lime. "[Euh?]" she said.

Rita stepped off the sofa and onto Torus's, laying down again. "[It means lazy,]" she said.

Dyna chewed her lime and said, "[Jerks!]")

"No matter what they may think of her,"—and by the montage he could see that she was wrapping up—"there are few who deny that the young Miss Pondelore has a talent for Pokémon not seen since the rise of her sister, or that she stands a real chance at the championship. Just how far, the next few days will decide. Back to you."

So they spoke at least a little kindly, he thought, as the screen returned to the commentators, to which Dyna said, This lot again—and he was inclined to agree with her. They'd all seen enough to know how it went, how they would try to sum up Runa's method or style, none of it even close to capturing her, and then split up into sides so as to have something to talk about. They ought to ask people who knew! he thought, people who saw her way of thinking, enough at least to have a notion. Now they went on about her silence, how it unnerved trainers, things in battling terms; they couldn't talk about Runa's hidden qualities, how even her standing near them helped thinking in battle. But trainers, at least, had some slight inkling, and so were curious to see how far she went, whether she made it past Manda—and in that case, once defeated already, there was every chance of defeating Manda a second time—and so whether she upset all of battling, revolutionised the whole business. For that was the true prize, if they won: Runa would begin to change everything for Pokémon, would get her school as she always dreamed! And here, he thought, they talked about her making people feel uncomfortable.

The host turned to a man on the panel, one he didn't recognise, and said, "You've been outspoken in your support for the young lady Pondelore, Michel. Tell us, why do you hope she goes far in the tournament?"

The man Michel said, "Well, firstly because I find it refreshing, shaking up the mythos of the privately funded, ultra-professional trainer, as I think describes her sister and many of the recent champions. Everyone loves an underdog, and with a lot of trainers feeling under pressure, that the stipends aren't enough to compete these days, it's good to celebrate a girl who might have had anything, yet who took the traditional route. She's surprised many getting this far—the top eight, in her first tournament—after just eighteen months of ranked battling. If you recall, her sister actually began serious training when she was seven, thirteen years before she battled Lance, while as far as we know, if Runa trained at all in Hoenn, it wasn't anything near as much. And I think she comes across as very down-to-earth and humble, crediting her Pokémon for every victory. She's a role model for any young trainer, I think, and that's why I hope she wins, if not the title itself, then at least the finalist's cup."

Had he hands to clap, he thought, as Dyna did, how they would all jump! So often when such professionals spoke, it was to put Runa down some way as not a real trainer, not knowing a hard life, all sorts of rot he couldn't bear. The industry, Runa said, liked the last few decades' changes in training, with all the money and advertising there now was. It was a boon to have famous, wealthy champions, like Manda or Diantha—the return of the Pondelores! they said. Half the crowd had the nine-tailed flags of the family to wave at either sister as they cheered. And faced with picking sides between them (for they always showed sides; it was their role to excite), would the industry rather support the famously disciplined current champion, the one who guaranteed more future spending and celebrity with only wealthy trainers at the top, or the one who said that Pokémon shouldn't have to battle? But at least, he thought, they wouldn't go too far in being rough on Runa; as Tanwen said, they'd never alienate the Pondelores by attacking her openly, but only split and try to look even.

The host said, "Would it be fair to say that she doesn't really care about winning the Championship?"

Michel said, "Well, I don't think it's fair to say she doesn't care. But perhaps a loss would affect her less than other trainers."

Well, he thought, the man didn't know everything. The host turned to the other side of the table. "Dorian, you've also been outspoken about the younger Pondelore," he said—"what's your response to Michel?"

And this was the one, he thought, the rotten man who was hard on Runa, who said she wouldn't make the fourth round! Wasn't it obvious, then, that he didn't know what he was talking about? But this was the other side of balance, as they thought it.

The man leaned back and said, "Before that, let me be the first to congratulate Champion Manda on her win—or what will be her win, I expect, in just a few minutes—however unnecessary it may be. Really, I don't know why she felt the need to prove herself in Johto when she's defeated Lance, whom nobody questions was worthy. Now, I'm afraid I don't follow the romantic image Michel has just now painted. Runa Pondelore has hardly followed a traditional route; it's all very well to imagine her as some underdog, but without her family's constant support—paying for hotels in every city, remember, oftentimes owned by her parents, summering in Cianwood City, even hiring minders to watch her whilst she lives on the beach—without all that behind her, her so-called adaptive training is hardly possible. No doubt she can more easily get away with breaking etiquette, but is there something I'm missing which makes this attractive to other Johtoites? I was under the impression that we tend to frown on such behaviour—and certainly, there's a lot of it. If you look at the record of complaints lodged against her, she's been accused of treating other trainers like beggars, turning down victory money, even handing out medicine as if they can't afford it. She's refused to battle if her special conditions aren't met, of keeping her entire team out of balls to intimidate opponents, of having her Pokémon act early without direction and forcing her opponent to decide more quickly, not giving any chance to use their reading abilities—all changes, I notice, which give her an in-built advantage. There's no rule, of course, that a trainer must call out every command, but why not call it what it is? The highest flinch statistic in professional battling. I shan't name names, but some very highly placed trainers in Johto have had critical things to say about her, including at least one gym leader.

"Champion Manda, on the other hand, conducts herself with nothing but the sort of behaviour you expect from her position. She's the model these fans of Runa ought to look to: she takes her responsibility to trainers and battling very seriously, and always keeps her Pokémon in top form." For the screen behind them showed the clip again, he hiding behind Runa, then Runa with her arm around him, and the man laughed—laughed—and said, "Of course I applaud her for getting as far as she has, but oughtn't any serious trainer have all her Pokémon in shape by now? I mean, this is the Silver Conference—not a contest club in Pokémon Tech."

Dyna threw a lime at the screen and said, "[Shut up! Talking head!]"

He felt himself turn hot and quivering—using him to attack Runa, to make her a joke! But this was the way it worked, Runa said: it better excited the crowd to draw up differences, focus more on the bad than the good, and one had to put up with it or the media's spotlight became far worse. None of them knew Runa, what happened in those cases when a trainer complained, wanting an excuse for losing. Runa only felt bad when Pokémon were hurt; why not heal them at once, and not let them suffer in their balls until a Centre, perhaps not until many hours later? Was a trainer's ego bigger than that? Perhaps that was the matter. On the screens, when the people talked, the rosters were all human faces; one had to do their own research to spot a Pokémon.

The host turned and said, "On that note, everyone, we're hearing now that the defending champion Manda Pondelore has just finished her battle … and as expected, she has advanced to the quarterfinal, where in three days she will face her sister, Runa Pondelore. Marjorie is on the ground with the latest."

The report moved to the arena floor, where the crowds were still cheering, the reporter speaking at the arena's edge as she waited for Manda to return. What she said, he couldn't make out; none of them listened, he knew, all thinking the same thing. It was over—anyone could see that. The question was always whether they lost before reaching Manda, or in the thing itself. If only she had sorted into another branch! It had to have been rigged, a tiny chance they met so early, one in sixteen, or was it eight? but less likely than not by a huge margin: they should have had a chance to win the semifinal, at a minimum, and make the final round. Runa's parents would support her school, they said, if she were a finalist.

Dyna pushed away her limes, regarding the last of them as if she just realised they were bitter. "[Stupid needy Manda,]" she said. "[Why'd she have to join?]"

But Runa would say not to think that way. To make the top eight was very respectable; any other trainer would be delighted, and hadn't Red himself only made sixteen in his first tournament? She was proud of them; that they grew and improved was all she cared about. Nobody won the championship the first time—no one, of course, but Manda.

He looked at Tanwen; Dyna looked as well. Whether the team survived or not was up to her, and she knew it: she leaned back and spread her arms across the sofa, and said, "[Well, that was fun. I suppose top eight's something.]"

Dyna said, "[Yeah. Good enough even for a super-queen like you?]"

Tanwen didn't speak, but looked at the wall for a long moment. Perhaps she'd really changed her mind? he thought. But then she said:

"[There's two teams in the other branches without a fire type. One of them has to make top four.]"

She would really do it, then, he thought—take all her time with Runa, all of her friendship, and throw it away, destroy it in a fit of ego and go running to another team because she didn't get enough time, because she didn't have Runa all to herself? Runa's first Pokémon, he thought, abandoning her!

Across the room Torus looked away. He had to see exactly that sort of rot in her mind, could dissect her thinking on the spot and explain how it came from insecurities, the little Cyndaquil inside who perhaps heard Runa say how she was special and could do anything she wanted, and took this to mean that no others could. Now Tanwen looked at Torus and flared up, knew he saw through her possibly. "[Don't act like I'm mercenary,]" she said. "[Not when after months of carrying you the minute you evolve it's all Runa's little helper.]"

Torus began to stroke his spoon and said, "[I think rather that you undermine yourself. It would be difficult to dominate an established team. It would better suit you to find a younger trainer, with more capacity to grow.]"

"[Sure,]" Tanwen said, "[and only find out later she's incompetent. Sorry—I tried that already.]"

Then Dyna jumped up and flung her lime at Tanwen; and now, as expected—oh, when was Runa back?—the argument began. Dyna said, "[You're a little rot, you know that? You used to be all right before we got to Goldenrod, but you turned right horrible quick after that, when you weren't all Runa's pet any more. We'd be champions easy next year if you weren't such a flake! But you're scared, 'cause you know by then you're nothing, and both they're Dragonite, and that's all that matters is you! You know, I hope we do lose and go to Hoenn, so we can get new Pokémon. Then you'll see what she's replaced you with when we win, and you can only watch! And then you'll quit your team again, and come begging back to us, and Runa'll say no because you suck.]"

Tanwen's spots were really flaring now, he saw, and right on the fabric. She took the lime and said, "[You mean when she has two them, or six? When he becomes a thousand-pound ball on her leg and Runa gives up on every element to start her dragon petting zoo? When you]"—she crushed the lime—"[swallow a Mega Stone whole, just so you can make out like you're relevant? Because that's what you'll need to do, if you want to stay with Runa. This is what I get for believing her. This is what we get for taking wilders!]"

She was working herself up; she was going to start an Eruption, he thought, and blow up the cabin. Oh, wouldn't Torus speak? Runa would come in and see the team tearing to pieces in front of her, her philosophy itself collapsing. He could beg; he could press his face into the fabric and plead; but this was coming a long time, Tanwen and Dyna, and this sense of slowly rending, this pain in his throat, was only what Runa had to be feeling, what she had to feel ten times stronger for each of them, as they all turned—Those were Gaia's footsteps through the floor.

He said, "[Runa's coming.]"

Dyna said, "[Go kiss a Squirtle! Those two're better at lightning than I am—better at fire than you!]"

And now Tanwen did flare up, the flames rising from her back, and the couch begin to blacken—now Gaia opened the door. At once the argument stopped, Dyna standing with static all along her arms, Tanwen smouldering (the fire was out), Torus motionless, and Rita, he saw, looking with actual alarm that things were collapsing, as if she had never really believed it. On the screen the commentators laughed again.

"[Where's Runa?]" he said.

Gaia looked at the others. "[Talking to Manda,]" she said.

He heard Runa outside, speaking in pauses; on the screen, the reporter was in a cutout frame, still waiting for Manda, who was on her phone.

"[Manda called her?]" he said.

Gaia stepped inside, looking at Tanwen. "[Wishing her luck,]" she said. "[Get up.]"

Tanwen may have argued; but she stood, passed him heading for the kitchen area, and Gaia turned over the sofa cushions, brushed it down, stood with her hands on the back of the sofa. She looked tired; she didn't look at all surprised to find another argument. She looked at the television but did not seem to see it.

"[It's just a few days left,]" she said. Runa was walking now toward the door, still talking. "[Just a few more days, all right?]"

At the threshold, Runa said, "No, of course not … Right … Goodbye." On the screen, Manda put away her phone; Dyna switched it off. Then Runa looked at the couch, and to Tanwen, who was very occupied with inspecting the refrigerator. And seeing him behind Dyna, she sat near.

"We," she said (and he couldn't help it: he laid his head near hers) "have just made it to the quarterfinals, and the top eight in all of Johto, and that's worth being proud of. So we'll train tomorrow … tonight, let's celebrate. Let's just take the night off to be happy. All right?"

In the kitchen, Tanwen made a noise, but said nothing.


	14. Level 50 - Silver Town (Scenes 3-4)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Torus, Tanwen, him, and Gaia; or Torus, Gaia, Tanwen, him: Apollo, Nero, Diana, Jeanmarie; or Nero, Diana, Jeanmarie, and Apollo; or another entirely, if Manda confounded them, brought in a special ringer. She usually lead with Apollo, so Torus. Why Torus? Fire was weak to water; flying was weak to electricity; but Torus suggested it, so it had to be best. Psychic, fire, dragon, and dragon-flying; fire-flying, water-ice, fire, and electric, unless she used a ringer. Statistically a Dragonair was best, Runa said, especially him with his ability: he was the wild card, had the most resistances, effective moves against all but Diana. A little trick like his protection from ice may make all the difference, Gaia said: she wouldn't survive, she said, if it went to her. It was even better, she argued, that he had not evolved (invented things just to calm him), that he didn't have wings to trip him up. He was, both she and Runa seemed to think, the very best hope; they put their hands on him to keep him steady.

They ought to know better, he thought, turning over. Everything he won in battle was a fluke; the Steelix, the Scizor, pure chance he produced the energies when he did; a dozen faints he avoided only in the last instant as he connected a hit. So he had never fainted in battle—what about it? He only held on at times, he felt, because of Runa, how much she believed in him, and then said it was only his will.

He slipped off the couch. Some will! he thought, unable to sleep when everything depended on their being rested. Two days' worry for the battle, and he could hardly spin a twister for knots; not an hour passed without his wanting to stick his head in water; he'd shed twice since the fifth round. He passed the others round him, passed Gaia on her mat, and went to the kitchen.

Runa had offered him her bed. She told him in private that, if it helped to rest, he might wrap himself up in the blankets, and she and Torus would go over the plans again elsewhere. Torus knew how much he wanted it, to insist that she stayed and talked tactics into the night as he slept beside her. Yet how could he take advantage in a time like this? So he shook his head; looked at the others, tried not to feel, he thought, Runa's sadness, only wanting to be kind, only wanting him to be happy.

—That's okay … We'll go over it in the morning. Just rest, and try to think about nice things.

Gaia wouldn't have heard the hesitation; but as if Runa had said herself that she expected they'd fail, that she expected him to leave her, which—if he wanted it—she would only try to accept as for the best, and would resolve herself to make peace with it, he could not sleep at all.

—Remember all the good times we've had.

He had eaten at the restaurant, every night as Runa took them, always wanting one more evening, but he was hungry again. A few apples, then: a few apples wouldn't hurt, or some juice, something to cool him down. He pried open the refrigerator door with his nose and checked, but the pitcher was gone, just Aprijuice bottles he could not open. But there was half a bowl of potato salad left; he pressed the plastic wrap, pulled it off, licked the bowl clean. A few apples, then, and he would try again to sleep.

And what would happen if they lost? Runa said her parents wanted them to come to the family house in Hoenn, whatever the outcome (a rotten phrase, he thought—Whatever the outcome—as if they supported both daughters at once!), where they could rest, and decide what to do. So they expected Runa, the perfect trainer—not by their standards, but to Pokémon, to the bond—to return to her room, as if none of it had ever happened, as if she were a failure, who would presently try something else. Wasn't it clear since all the way in Olivine that this was the only outcome: to battle Manda, the champion? He ought to have trained harder, much harder all the while … or perhaps, if it was bound to fail anyway, if possibly time was short, he might have only concentrated on spending time with Runa, made fond memories, forgot about battling but waited at her side as she formed a team of greats, so that she'd be happy and relaxed. Almost two years with Runa, now, and at times it seemed nothing; at others, it seemed to be his entire life. It was difficult recalling much of the Corner, now; scarcely anything remained of the time before, the caves near Blackthorn if that was it.

What would Runa do, after this? he thought, if after such a failure, her Pokémon quitting, a thing no trainer ever had to deal with, and when her whole way was to help them be happy … would she even want to continue? Would she think that she did something wrong, and blame herself, and give him an apple in a sack and kiss his nose and say, Isn't it better this way? No, no! It wasn't over; she wouldn't release him! If he wanted to stay, she would never ask him to leave. He had to persuade her of that, that however the others were, she must never think that he lost belief in her.

He dropped the cores into the bin, and the squashed banana peels, and turned to go back, but presently he heard a sound: a voice: there, the light of the door down the hall was moving. Then Runa was still awake, talking to Torus, even though she said she would sleep after midnight, and it had to be past that now. So they were still discussing it—perhaps they developed a better plan?

He ought not; but something suggested—a wild image of him at the door as Runa confessed her love—to go over and listen. And he shouldn't, he thought, hovering near; it wasn't right, and Torus would know.

It didn't sound like conversation, rather Runa speaking softly without pause. But the door might blow open any moment—just because a psychic heard other people's thinking, didn't mean it justified a snoop! He abused Runa, really; she'd look and be disappointed; but there was the door.

"Jeanie's so fast," she said—speculating on Manda's tactics? "She won't miss. Shadow could handle two of them, maybe, n' Gaia if she isn't hurt. Dyna might but we'd never get them together. Without Jeanie it's possible. But then Polo—" She paused for a long moment. "We shouldn't even be fighting. We shouldn't— We should have gone to Unova or Sinnoh, or Kalos, and just started fresh. It's just Tan. She … I shouldn't have chosen her. I should've known we weren't right. I know that. I used to talk about raising a Charmander. I'd have called her Hestia. Then Manda wouldn't … well. You know all that."

But this wasn't like Runa, he thought, not as she spoke to them. She sounded more anxious than he ever remembered her—she sounded actually afraid. And where did Dyna reenter, when they'd already decided she wouldn't battle? And she said that Tanwen was a mistake! But it was like Runa to take all the blame on herself, to want, even though it was their own faults, his fault, to somehow accept responsibility. For the rest of them, she covered it, made out that everything was hopeful, that all was well, and that even a loss was to learn from and grow closer; but to Torus, who knew, there was no point in hiding, and she showed her true feelings as she worried to pieces.

"I know it's over," she said. And he might only push through the door, land beside her— "There's Tan. Rita. And, as you say, Devon and Silph and Viola. You know I'm happy if you … you know. You know I am. Dyna doesn't want to go, I don't think, but she's not happy. She never wanted battling … She wouldn't mind Hoenn. And Gaia … I don't know. And Shadow. He—"

She sighed; and he absolutely ought not to hear, he thought—everything was wrong about it, eavesdropped on Runa, betraying her, really, when she was most vulnerable—but this was Runa, speaking about him, as she did in private when she thought he couldn't hear, and he could not move: he was frozen to the spot.

"I don't know what to do about him," she said. "He's got to be the strongest in the team. He hates all of it, I know, but he has it in his head that it's what he wants. It's how he'll get better, he thinks. And I … I have to help. What's it matter how I feel, if I see him hurt? It shouldn't matter. I should just help him, if it's what he wants. Even if I can't help anyone else, if only Shadow—"

She paused again. But she was wrong: he wasn't strong at all. Only fear made him battle, fear of losing her, of disappointing; for dangling every day across the cliff, he felt, eventually he would fall and lose his grip, unless he constantly worked and checked himself, and every day it seemed more difficult. It was bound to snap soon; he survived, as ever, by chance, that his feelings hadn't yet come out; and the longer it went on, all his work only set up a greater future pain, a greater loss for Runa. And he thought he deceived her; yet even she knew that he hid it, that he hated battling, so she had to know—had to suspect—

But was that Runa sniffing, now, he thought, Runa crying? He should burst in, fly into her arms!—but she said, "Say again that thing, the two Pokémon on the road?" And with his telepathy, extended to include the one he saw snooping, he thought, Torus said:

[Two Pokémon, starved for food, pass down a road, and happen upon a blanket laid with all the pleasurable sustenance they can imagine, its owner absent. One passes, knowing it is wrong to steal and suffering no temptation. The other looks on with great longing, wanting nothing more than to take a bite, but passes also, mastering the impulse. The question is: Who is the better?]

Runa said, "I know, rationally, that it's the first, for not being tempted in the first place … but it's the second who's doing a harder thing. They've all worked hard—all of them, I know. But you know me. I can't help how I feel."

Then Runa sniffed again and said, "Does it make me a … a bad person … a bad trainer, if I have to have a favourite?"

He couldn't think; couldn't feel anything. Runa thought herself a failure, a rotten person, just because she cared for some more than the others? Runa didn't pick favourites, he always said, but—and it was against her thinking, yes—but how could anyone not be fonder of some, of Gaia, say, more than Rita, when one worked hard and the other took advantage? How could anyone blame such a feeling? But this favourite, he thought, if Runa was saying—

"My family's always had favourites," Runa said, "but this … I thought this would be different. I thought with a fresh start … But I've been so stupid. I don't deserve to have them."

And that was it, he thought: he couldn't let her speak any longer, abusing herself: he would push right in and—Runa was getting up inside the room. Torus could take the bed, she said.

He flew back down the corridor into the lounge, into a coil on the seat; Rita stirred, sniffed at him, settled again. If he shut his eyes, if he was still enough, Runa may see and only think that he was sleeping, not anxious at all, and she wouldn't worry.

He heard Runa's feet on the kitchen floor, pausing, looking, he felt, right at him, then the others. She only wanted to sit near; if he only stirred, she would come over to his seat; for he was her favourite, and that was not the others' words, but Runa's herself. That was why she said all those things: he suffered, and she felt sorry, felt tenderer toward him than the others for all his work, and that was against her philosophy. And was that what happened to her old team? She had grown to love a favourite who was not in fact the best, to the expense of the other potential champions they gave her, who wasted without her direction; so her family said that she wasn't fit for Pokémon, and took them all away. Now she felt the same, for him; and for him, the team would fail again.

Runa sat on the couch by Dyna; and by the time he raised his head to look, she was already sleeping, holding Dyna's tail.

* * *

He would not battle, Runa said.

For she decided in the morning: Dyna would take his place.

—Manda's expecting two dragons, so she'll be betting everything on Jeanmarie. Dyna will really trip her up—that's the chance we need.

A day ago she had said that he was the best all-rounder, that his resistances would surprise them, whereas Dyna would be helpless; and now Runa said the very opposite, didn't look at them as she said it, didn't even order, but it was just the same thing: she directly asked Dyna if she would do it, a thing she'd never done before. Dyna wrapped her arms up and turned away as Runa tried to hug her. She didn't have to, Runa said—it was not a case of must—but if Dyna trusted her, if their time meant anything, she'd do her that favour. And then Dyna would be a veteran of the quarterfinals; and she could tell anyone she liked about it, meaning, he thought, on the Hoenn estate, as Dyna would quit the team right after.

What could Dyna say? In any other team it would not have been a question, and the Pokémon, bound to faint, would continue to love regardless—so Gaia reminded her, who had been as surprised as anyone, but in a minute was clasping Dyna's arm, saying that anything which confounded Manda was a help, and hadn't Runa been good to her? Runa had never asked them for anything, Gaia reminded her, and didn't they owe her everything? So Dyna assented; but if, she said, Runa thought that she'd be forgiven, she was stupid as well as rotten. She cursed Runa; cursed him also, it being if not his idea, she said, then clearly spawned in her by his rot seeping in, turning Runa evil. She refused all advice or company, but spent the morning trying to destroy rocks with lightning. And her words could be cruel, but could he blame her for feeling betrayed? She'd been told all the while that she wouldn't have to battle; and just as once he saved her from a certain faint in Olivine, and ever since she'd always had a higher regard for him, so everything turned over again, and now she was being made to save him, and this without her choice in it. He tried to apologise; said he didn't know what changed in her, that he would still battle, even if it was against what Runa wanted. Dyna looked at him and threw a rock.

—Get faint, you fairy. Everyone knows you're too fat to get iced! She just doesn't want you losing 'cause you're her favourite. Go stick your head in her pants.

When Runa left to register them, Tanwen exploded, actually incinerated the grass around her in a ring, and said that Runa was obscene, the worst trainer, that she'd be stuffing him back into an egg as they all fainted for his pleasure. He must have begged her in the night, she said, wept on her lap to get out of it; she'd seen him leave his seat, skulking towards Runa's room, then rushing back; and not content to merely ruin the team, but by Runa giving in to his cowardice, he made her break her own promises by ordering Dyna to fight. Then Gaia really wanted to wade into her; the water was at her hands, possibly only held it so as not to weaken Tanwen just before a battle; but Tanwen said not to bother, that she'd take her own frustrations out in battle, and everyone would notice. Wanting to win was one thing, she said, but it took a sick injustice to really bring the fire out.

So came the quarterfinal, then, and he was in the front stalls, separated from the arena by the ring lake, lying useless next to Rita; and like Rita, he thought, wouldn't Runa benefit if he only went away and became a foraging wilder again? (The announcer gave the rules—four Pokémon to a side, no items, no potion-healing.) He should have denied her—he should have proved himself. Even if all he could do was weaken another Pokémon—a single thunderbolt on Apollo or Jeanmarie, a wave of water, or paralysis—that was something to let a real fighter like Gaia or Tanwen finish them: that was what they needed more than anything, not another one-hit fainter. But the team was now registered, and past the point of changing.

The crowd rose in cheering as Manda came out onto the field. What rots! he thought. Half of them would have been cheering Runa, just days ago, perhaps were, waving the same nine-tailed flag as for Manda.

"[Look, they're cheering for us,]" Rita said, looking at him; he continued to look straight ahead. The flag, of course, was based on the Pondelores' coat of arms, a Ninetales emblazoned in the centre. Well, he thought, Rita could rot too.

Dyna looked sick on the screens, standing behind Runa, facing now what was meant for him. He couldn't deny a relief when Runa said it, that she didn't want him to battle; which only made him feel guiltier, to benefit from Runa's breaking with herself, but there it was. Dyna was right that Runa only didn't want him fainting: if the team was already lost, she decided, she would rather only spare him the suffering. But didn't she know, didn't Torus tell her, how close they were to leaving her? If they lost, Dyna said, it would be her last battle: done and retired to the fields of Hoenn to throw twigs at Mareep or the like. Runa's parents would say that she didn't prove herself (this being all a plan of theirs, he knew, putting Manda in to prevent it); the people may say, If it hadn't been Manda … but falling short of a proper title, they'd forget her soon enough. And that was being generous; for if many did cheer the underdog, there were plenty in the crowd, he knew, who wanted her failure, perhaps only hoped for some crushing finale. They didn't know or care a thing about her, he thought: she wasn't Manda, they figured, and that was enough, for Manda, being champion, was a winner, and wasn't that was it was all about? They wouldn't think that it was terrible either way, that even if they didn't understand Runa, her losing was a tragedy as she represented something new, a new kind of thinking of Pokémon. But it was never about philosophy for them: it was all a show. They called it sport, and bet for money, and celebrated their judgement, and forgot the costs.

The announcer said, "Trainers, ready your Pokémon!"

Manda held her belt; behind Runa the team all stood ready, Gaia flexing her wings and arms. They had opened with her in every battle of the Conference, just so that Manda might send out her Arcanine, as she did, to try to weaken her with a quick attack, ruin her scale's potential; but really, Torus thought, she'd send Apollo, having worked out her process from the records. So Torus would go first, and he would use his discretion, building a defence or some such to confuse her. If only Torus were permitted to read Manda! But he said it was out of the question. —You would find us very quickly banned from battling, he said. Such actors we are for convenience, and actors are not the show.

The siren went off, and Torus teleported across the line.

Manda said, "Apollo!"

Just as Torus predicted, he thought, but why was that her thinking? Perhaps she wanted to prove something, perhaps, some special contest between Gaia and Apollo, some try at flustering Runa by putting out her very old friend, but it wouldn't work. Now Torus would know what to do: he lasted many rounds against a Dragonite in the Dragon's Den through clever tactics, Gaia said, and Charizard were not so flexible—even him.

Manda said, "Fly!"

Apollo leapt and flew up over the arena. What kind of strange tactic was this, he thought, the most predictable pattern possible, and against Torus who planned for everything? But Apollo looked so different in battle—always jolly and bright in Saffron City, his true character, whereas now he was only grim, as if he lacked the liberty to feel his own emotions, as if he kept a double nature for it: putting on a show, as he too understood it.

Torus covered his eyes with his spoons, then uncovered them, flashing a brilliant blue, and a strange ping rang across the arena. He knew the sound: the Future Sight, projecting a great attack on Apollo, a swell of psychic energy around him which, if it landed rightly, may knock him right out, or gravely injure him. But did Torus really see a chance to survive so long against the number-two Charizard, a physical expert? Yet Torus must have calculated; it had to be right.

Apollo reached his flight's apex, and now he began to dive. They'd seen this before, Apollo bowling Pokémon halfway across the arena … Torus raised his spoons in the air—a shield? A barrier, to block the whole attack, he saw. Then Apollo's entire effort would be wasted, and they'd that much closer to the Future Sight! Apollo saw it, of course; knew there was nothing to do but strike, to break and clear the barrier. He struck the green field, and rebounded; the barrier broke, and Apollo landed very near.

"Shadow Claw," Manda said.

Apollo's entire arm seemed to extend in a purple aura; and now, how close he was to Torus! who had hardly a moment to try anything. And that was Manda's plan, he thought, just to get close enough to strike. Torus even wasted time, when he might have thrown out Thunderbolts! Torus raised his spoon, tried again to raise a barrier—could he do it? as likely as not perhaps—but Apollo was fast, too fast for even an Alakazam. The barrier wasn't solid before he struck, cracked Torus under his head, again as he fell back—sent him flying back to Runa. His spoons fell behind him. A Machamp ran onto the field.

The crowd began to chant: Man-_da_. But it couldn't be real—Torus was putting on a show. He hadn't been out for thirty seconds, the cleverest being in the entire stadium, and he was fainted already, he who'd never once fainted before! Now the cameras zoomed in on Runa from every angle: the look of loss in a trainer, the anguish, they wanted to see (a vile business, battling, and it always would be). The Machamp lay Torus on the ground beside her, to sit out the rest of the battle once she revived him—Manda allowed that, at least. He sat up and turned away, summoned his spoons, set about a Recover. He must have calculated it as the very best chance: fifty percent that he worked the second barrier, that the Future Sight landed, better than most they could hope for.

Runa looked at Dyna—and the Ampharos started, began to back off, meant to run off the field he imagined; without Torus there wasn't a chance, the three of them against Manda's whole team. She glared at Runa; but didn't she see that Runa felt just as bad? But Gaia said something; Tanwen said something; Dyna curled her arms and stepped forward, marched onto the field, persuaded, perhaps, to faint for the team, to get it all over with and retire.

She didn't wait for anyone: once she passed the line she started running forward, began to build up a charge on her hand, howling something he could not quite hear about bolts of instant lightning. But now Apollo vanished from the field—the Arcanine, Nero, appeared; and pulling back somewhat as she saw him, as she saw his look and her eyes grew round, Dyna ran into him with her arm discharging, all that was meant for Apollo. And it hardly affected the Arcanine: Dyna knocked over, and he did not.

The speakers played Manda's command across the stadium:

"Crunch."

If he lived to be three hundred years old, as some Dragonite did, such things he would always remember: Torus knocked out at once, halfway through the air with his spoons behind him; Dyna on every screen with a tear in her eye, as she looked up at Manda's Arcanine and paralysed. This was what it came to, she was thinking: two years with Runa, for this. And as if for lack of any other idea, she withdrew and sparked all over, to throw out anything she had.

He couldn't look as Nero bit down on her—only heard as Dyna howled and kicked, until the rotten crowd drowned her out, roaring in delight at her torture. It would have been him, had Runa not begged her, Nero biting out whole chunks of him. The Arcanine was the worst she had: he didn't care at all for causing pain, perhaps even enjoyed it. But Dyna fought back; he heard a burst, and looked: Nero had dropped her, tried to avoid it, but Dyna discharged her every energy into his chin, sent him backing up and shaking as if to throw off any paralysis.

Manda said, "Extreme Speed!"

Her final battle, Dyna said: after this, she would never battle again. The mark of Nero's bite surrounded her leg, and now she couldn't even stand, let alone dodge it. In the time he moved his head to look, the Arcanine was gone—vanished in a blur, reappeared suddenly with Dyna in front of him, punching her through the air ahead, throwing her across the arena, crashing in a trail of dust.

It was wicked, he thought—Runa ran, fell over her—obscene to carry on for people's pleasure this business where they suffered for the crowd to enjoy, all enjoying the pain, thinking nothing of Pokémon but to how they threw punches. And yet if he flew out to Runa, if he volunteered to spare Gaia losing her record, they would jeer; call it bad form, rule-breaking; make out that he insulted the distinguished art of abusing Pokémon. And humans had some violent sports; but not even in the most physical did they intentionally fight to fainting, and in any case, didn't they have a choice in the matter?

—But there's a place for Pokémon battling. (Runa always said it must exist.) It's the release of energy in battles that, in the wilds, is how most Pokémon grow. If two like to battle—I mean if it's what they want to do, because they enjoy it—there's nothing wrong with it. It's when Pokémon are made to do it, or when people imagine that it's their purpose, that it's a problem.

And it was only what they put on several teams already in the Conference, he thought, and countless many before: this was how they each felt, the crowds cheering at every friend fallen (they called now for the next contender), their journey ending in a crowd's raptures, calling out _Ru-na_! or _Man-da_! There would be that touch of injustice, that it was only done with wealth, some unfair advantage. And why do it? he thought, this big defence, for Manda didn't even enjoy it, never reacted at all. It was the family, he thought. Runa had escaped, determined to live her own life; Manda, as the elder daughter, didn't have that option, couldn't do otherwise but take up the shield. As she applied herself to battling, Runa was free to do otherwise; and if Runa were the elder, if that expectation were on her, could she have escaped it? Would she be the champion, sending out Apollo—for he would have been hers—a whole different team, never leaving for Johto? He would watch her on the screen in the Corner, or some apartment in Goldenrod, and fancy he loved her, knowing nothing.

Dyna was sitting up, talking to herself, refusing to look at Runa. There was no question, by their gestures, by Runa's lack of movement, that she'd allow Tanwen next. To protect Gaia's scale, was the only hope: if Nero used his speed, all hope was lost, the minute Jeanmarie took the field, not the smallest chance of surviving.

On the screens Tanwen stood energised, muscles standing out that even humans might see, allowing (if she really meant it) all her hatred for Runa and the rest of them to seethe out, to magnify her powers. For even if they lost, this was her audition: she meant to prove herself, knock out a champion Pokémon at all costs, and then she'd have her pick of teams. And she wasn't quick enough to match Nero, his Extreme Speed, he thought. (And didn't Dratini from the Dragon's Den know how to use it? It looked familiar, he felt, but not from experience—some Dratini many generations back who used it, perhaps, so that some sense remained. But he was never quite that fast.)

Manda said, "Crunch!"

Perhaps she saw Tanwen's feeling about it, that in her rage she might err and waste her attack, and a wincing Crunch may make her flinch or do wrongly. She had to know that Tanwen was serious, shrugging off Nero's glare entirely. The Arcanine knelt and began to run, and now Tanwen kicked up clouds of dirt around her, knelt low on the ground—what was she planning?

As Nero leapt, meant to bite hard on her arm or brain, Tanwen's dust all poffed around her, and … Where was she? Nero carried right through, but clearly hadn't struck, pivoting round to find her. Then all the crowd roared: through the cloud they saw a hole in the ground. But Tanwen was clever, he thought, hadn't used it yet in the tournament—the sort of surprise they needed for Manda, that a Typhlosion might have perfected the Dig! Manda called out, told Nero to build up speed, to increase his agility; now he darted across the field, turned sharply, and there, he saw, the trail was following, the raised dirt. But he was too fast! She couldn't possibly catch him. Then the trail vanished into the ground.

Nero turned on a point—and suddenly the ground burst just in front of him, his foot falling in, and now she had him by the head, tumbling over, as if he strangled on a wire. And then she came down over him, still clasping, and landed her full weight on his neck.

He couldn't look; not even a brute like Nero deserved that. Wasn't he really dead? But Tanwen stood, and Manda withdrew Nero with a red flash, and all the crowd was up cheering, now, for Runa. On the screen, Nero's image crossed out in red, opposite the two by Runa's. It was no longer a clean sweep, then; they would say Runa put up a fight, and was like her sister.

"[O, she seems happy,]" Rita said.

For Tanwen beat her chest and roared, threw out her arms. To think this was Runa's first Pokémon! Was this the condition her parents made to let her travel in Johto? A new team, they said, but only starting with a born battler, one who'd never be happy if Runa wasn't cold and distant from them. Tanwen wouldn't quit the field, now, if even Runa ordered her; she would choke the Machamp who first tried to stop her. But with three still remaining, and Jeanmarie too, it wouldn't be her ending the battle.

Diana appeared on the field. Tanwen was blowing steam from her nostrils, now, and the Raichu hesitated, took stock of things, perhaps; but she looked back to Manda, trusted her judgement—held out her arms for the expected order.

Manda said, "Thunder!"

Diana raised her hands and a black cloud at once condensed over the arena—and this same Raichu, went the reports, had the highest reported Thunder accuracy in the double League. Tanwen snapped, began to run forward, and behind her, he saw, the ground tore up, as if some zip or ribbon followed her, peeling earth and stones up after. And now the bolts began to fall, and Tanwen slowed, ran on over the upturned stones themselves; and as a bolt came to strike her, with another pull of her arms a plume of rocks threw up and, like that, absorbed the shot, the rock shattering to pieces. (Dyna, he saw, sat up on the ground.) But this was absurd, he thought, running along an Earthquake; and still Diana (this was her trouble, Apollo said, ribbing her in Saffron) was only so focused on her Thunders all the time that she didn't move, but directed the bolts. Still she stood! And now, hardly seconds apart, Diana threw a final bolt down, landing directly on Tanwen—And yet it didn't. At the last instant she flipped up a great slab of rock in one hand, held it as a shield which blew to pieces, leaving her clear to strike.

Only now did Diana seem to spot her position—he couldn't look! (Diana was always kind to them, she and Apollo.) But on the screens he caught the rocks strike her, knock her tumbling away over the torn-up ground, knocked back and forth until it left her on a beaten mound of earth.

Was she out at once? That would leave a chance, though—two per side, and Gaia still to come! But Diana turned over, held her middle.

"Thunderbolt, finish her!" Manda said. All business still with Manda, he thought, and so with Tanwen—the Raichu was quicker in every way, would never miss, had never missed a Thunderbolt, he expected, in her life, but Tanwen crouched and the ground began to steam, turned red in crossing lines about them. And she might survive, he thought, she hadn't yet been—

Diana's Thunderbolt struck her full in the middle; carried on for several seconds, it seemed, until he was sure he saw her skeleton. Nothing could survive that! he thought. Even Gaia would have fainted. Tanwen fell to her knees as it ended; and yet as if she had the Sturdy, as if her anger, perhaps, was so extreme that even Kyogre could not have snuffed her, she held her control a moment longer—held, and let off the Lava Plume.

Again Diana did not expect it, and as molten rocks struck her all over, left great welts on her back and head, she tumbled over again, knocked away, falling flat. Still she was moving! still able to act, trying to stand. And Tanwen ahead of her had fainted on the field—the third marker by Runa's picture on the screen went red, and all the crowd went howling—but Manda frowned and put up her hand as if to shush them. And why? he thought. She wanted to gloat, wanted to be heard … but there, as the smoke all cleared, the cameras cut back to Diana. She was covered in red all over, still trying to raise herself; and in a moment, once the burn set in, she collapsed, and Manda returned her. Another red mark appeared by her name: two Pokémon remaining.

If Manda winning flawlessly could excite the crowd, he thought, it was nothing to Manda's Pokémon falling one after the other: all the crowd seemed ecstatic, a show they hadn't expected, turning on the champion if it only seemed she was vulnerable. They cheered for Tanwen—cheered, and she was still too faint to hear it! (The Machoke laid her out by Runa.) But that was fair of Manda, he had to admit, not trying to withdraw Diana before the burn set in. (Whatever their differences, Runa said, Manda respected battling.) Now Manda spoke to her last two balls. None of them hated her in Saffron City: a hard trainer, was all. Was it the trait of a champion trainer, he thought, to push Pokémon as far as possible in battle without breaking the bonds between them? Perhaps that was what it took to succeed; perhaps loving Pokémon as Runa did could get one to the quarterfinal, and no farther.

Tanwen was awake. Dyna spoke, pointed at the screens, telling her probably that Diana had fainted, that all the crowds went wild—Runa said nothing. Why didn't she hold them? he thought. She applied the medicine with her head bend low, and Tanwen would not look at her. They would never speak again, perhaps: two-and-a-half years' company all lost, and if Gaia didn't win … Runa was covering her face. The cameras tried to see it, but she hid.

The crowd was all chanting for the finish, now; up on the screen, Manda had Jeanmarie's black and gold ball in her hand.

He was never such a miserable rot, he thought, as when he said nothing against Runa's offer—and it was an offer, wasn't it, to let him out of battling? She knew that they would lose, and so she decided, If they've all got to faint but one … But then what about the others? Dyna had already denounced Runa, but Tanwen might have stayed, if not for such favour. Gaia looked back toward him in the stands. For Gaia, he'd be happy to do it: better he spoiled the record he didn't care about than hers, who did, who might yet be a champion some day, the number-one Dragonite as she always dreamed. He ought to have ignored Runa! He had a real chance to worry Jeanie. But Gaia looked away; and, she had the Multiscale. There was still a chance, she would tell him, and not to worry. She flew out over the arena.

Jeanmarie, the number-one Golduck, the genius for ice, as Apollo said, stood on the field and stretched and scratched herself.

Perhaps Gaia would knock her out at once, he thought. (Perhaps Jeanmarie would yawn and faint instantly.) But Gaia was stronger than they gave credit for; and even Apollo needed help for Lance's Dragonite. The Ice Beam was not a certain thing, and Gaia was very quick, for all she said about his speed.

Manda said, "Rain Dance."

Oh! he thought—was that Manda's strategy, risking everything to give a little more speed in the moment, to kick in Jeanie's ability? But how that did that make sense? for rain aided lightning, by far her greatest weakness. Suddenly Gaia couldn't let the opportunity slip—this being the advantage of Runa's way, that she might forget at once about a Thunderbolt (he saw her swap the charge) and go directly to the thing, the Thunder, what might knock out Jeanmarie in a single shot. For it wouldn't miss in this, not like Diana—there was a chance!

The rain was pouring now, Gaia's Thunder adding to it. Jeanmarie began strafing across the field, water puffing up behind her with each step she took, as if she ran on water. How could one who slept for half the day, who often took naps in the middle of training, bring out an agility like this? But Gaia was ready: she had a free move against her, this wasted effort on weather which would only undermine her: the black cloud was full up, let go the first bolt—

It missed. All right, but the— But this wasn't possible, he thought, not in rain. Wasn't it a certain thing? The rain was supposed to channel the bolts, but Jeanmarie was so fast—another miss—that she was actually dodging them, darting back and forth like a Double Team, and always the bolt seemed to hit the double! Gaia put everything into it, he could see, had her full concentration, and it still wasn't enough: the Golduck was ahead at every step.

Manda said, "Ice Beam."

And that, he thought, seeing the whole field, was Manda's plan all along. For this wasn't a normal raincloud above, but one added to by Gaia's own power, amplifying Jeanmarie's own ability, giving her even more speed and evasion. Manda knew that Gaia would swap to Thunder, could not resist the temptation. Now again she fired up another bolt, increased its power, but it was a trick, didn't she see? Runa, he knew, saw the strategy, but she couldn't order: Manda twisted her own method against her.

Perhaps Gaia saw it now, as she began to prepare a Thunderbolt; but she had hardly begun to form the bolt when Jeanmarie let go her breath. A beam of brilliant ice shot out, so bright, he thought, it would burn Gaia right away. It fell right over her—froze her at once!

But Gaia, he saw, didn't fall to the field: there she was, just skirting the bottom, as Apollo did. That was how he survived the Hyper Beam of Lance's Dragonite: skimming as close as possible, just below, sight of him obscured by the beam itself. So Gaia had studied it, watched the records over and over, practised with Tanwen's Flamethrower, just to match this sort of occasion.

The Golduck knew, of course—and there were all the screens about, he thought, interfering with the strategy! She flicked it down, tried to catch her, but Gaia, also watching, slipped aside it, slipped under Jeanmarie's vision again. And now it was Jeanie who couldn't move, and Gaia was building up the Thunderbolt in her hand, would let it out as soon as she had a clear angle. She would get close and release from the shortest distance! It would be a one-shot faint. It was just a few more seconds to reach her; the beam skimmed close again, nearly clipped her wings, and again Gaia hid behind it, almost there … and now Jeanmarie turned and let the beam go wide, and on the screens, he saw, she fixed Gaia in the open with her eye.

How did Gaia feel, he wondered, knowing full well what was about to happen? Nothing could skip the beam at such a short distance.

The beam caught Gaia full in the face, the stomach, and the Thunderbolt slipped, flew wide and hit the ground. She turned; tried to right herself; ricocheted off the ground, all the while the beam still tracking her, the last of Jeanmarie's breath all connecting. She could not see, blinded with the ice; it was not even a critical hit, he thought: she never stood a chance against Jeanmarie's power. She crashed into the ring lake, his side across from Runa.

Presumably the people spoke; everything became a background noise. In the lake, plunging in after her, all the uproar ended; here in the light it almost seemed that Gaia had gone to sleep; gone to rest; wouldn't wake up, he felt, for years, but only sleep the time away. Her face, lime green in the sunlight, didn't show any trace of ice. A Lapras was already approaching, rising to lift her, to bring her to shore. Suppose she left? Suppose she flew away into the wilds, now that it was over, knocked out in one and failed the team, failed Runa, she would think. It was absurd; but as Gaia only floated amidst the rays, her pink wings lifting behind her, it seemed somehow impossible to prevent. Her dream was ended; the team also, collapsing with her; Runa's philosophy, and in a moment, even Runa's keeping them. Through the water at the edge of the lake, there Runa knelt—he could not see her face.

—And so what if we lose? (Tanwen had looked at Gaia as if she said fire was wet.) It's just a record. Manda's driven them for years in training just to be sure that they never lose, and what's it gotten them? They're all stuck in it, now. They're not happy—not even Apollo, however he pretends. Well, some day they'll lose—and then it'll feel like they've lost everything. Is that really what you want? A bit of losing now won't hurt us later.

"_Ladies and gentlemen, your victor and still undefeated champion, Miss Manda Pondelore_—!"

Yet Gaia only said it for appearances; for if the team fell apart, and nothing gained by it, how did a stoic acceptance of things really make it better? Better they felt rotten, but remained a family.

Runa rubbed Gaia's nose as the revive took effect, but didn't look into her eyes. She would say it was her fault, as if anyone could have navigated all their wishes. He pressed against her. He ought to have battled, at least spared Dyna. Then she would have nothing to resent; Gaia or Tanwen would have had another Thunderbolt or Thunder Wave to help them, and there wouldn't be so much hard feeling, and Tanwen would be pleased enough to stay. But instead he let Runa abandon her method, and do a thing for herself, and lose the team by it.

Apollo landed near, had come out of his ball and left Manda to be there, but said nothing—only put his hand on Runa's shoulder. They would all be in Hoenn before long, he seemed to say, and she had friends, an old friend who wished things had turned out differently. For Apollo would have been hers if Runa were Manda; but Manda, as her family's favourite, always got what she wanted.

"_Man-_da! _Man-_da!"


	15. Level 55 - Hoenn Estate (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 55**

Human parents, he thought, had absolutely the worst of all worlds. Naturally life would all end without offspring, and so those who chose to breed did a vital service. For Pokémon, it was an easy business, often as simple as to lay an egg and leave it to its own devices; in others there was an extended guardianship, lasting for months, even years in some cases (though whatever Dragonite or Dragonair laid him, he had no memory of her watching over), depending on the species. Humans, however, were all but born unthinking; as the documentary put it (didn't discuss the act of reproduction, assumed some knowledge that he didn't have, or glossed over), they arrived underdeveloped, directly of the mother; and as the slow human evolution lead to bigger brains and earlier births, whilst a newly hatched Ponyta or Bulbasaur might be up and moving within minutes, a human child might need years of growth before undertaking even the simplest actions. So entered human parenting, then, this role of guardian for up to twenty years or longer. The idea was that one's offspring, once raised to be independent, rightfully went off on their own, possibly to increase the family's advantage but at any rate to make their own, and it was the role of parents to train them. Biologically it was not always smooth; some evolved reaction from when humans hunted and gathered, when they roamed the countryside and ate Pokémon, rose up in their teenage years to make them argue, want to leave—the first steps of independence, as it were. In modern society, humans who left too early tended to turn badly; couldn't grow quickly enough to avoid serious difficulty; amounted to less in the end. Only a good training, a good parenting, would prepare them—or failing that, only a very exceptional girl. But to be a human parent, which at every step appeared a very difficult business, pouring constant love and attention into some child whom they were obliged to love, however their nature turned out, and who only took it for granted, thought their sacrifice nothing special, and whom after twenty years or more of training having to let them go, the parent's role done, no claim to one's own descendants but releasing them to their own direction—all that, anybody had to agree, was a very raw and selfless deal. Whereas most Pokémon could simply rub together, and in the morning leave an egg and move on, the matter done. So must be Runa's conception, he thought; for she gave willingly to all her Pokémon as like a parent, with the same end of guardianship in mind; whereas other trainers saw Pokémon as friends, but inferiors, to be well treated but ultimately to do as they were told.

Perhaps that was the start of Runa's philosophy, he thought, as she determined from an early age not to turn out like her parents; for that they loved her, he didn't doubt, but that they felt that they knew better, that she had somehow lapsed in her training, was clear. But the Pondelores, he understood now, were nothing like other families. Family hardly seemed the right word—rather dynasty, this notion of family extending far into the past, growing larger by generations until it overwhelmed the living, the weight crushing any living members and pressing its mold onto them. The pictures on the walls looked forward; they seemed to watch things through the years; the living Pondelores, each understood, had two duties to uphold: that to themselves, and that—what was greater, her family felt—to the generations who spent themselves creating the present. And that, he understood now, was what divided them from Runa; and it was that which Runa wanted so much to escape, what made her believe in self-determination so strongly that she gave up the team.

—It's a great team for her … I'm sure she'll be happy.

Tanwen left on the day of the final. She told Runa directly after the loss to Manda, when the thing was still fresh and raw, that she was done. What became one of the losing semifinalist teams, yet reckoned third in the entire tournament, lead by a boy perhaps two years older than Runa, responded to her message. They needed a good Fire-type to replace one retiring, were going to move to another region and finish all the gyms in a year. Runa arranged it so that she would keep in touch for reports. Torus called it a good fit, accompanying her: the boy's Diancie and Goodra, both defensive experts of warm character who despite their own differences became close friends, matrons of the team, would help Tanwen to settle in. Runa cut open the black-taped parcel and left with Torus as all the press concentrated on the final, Tanwen contained in her little ball, and were back shortly after it ended.

—_Kazam._

—It's for the best. If … if anyone else wants to say something … it's best you do now, and everything's clear.

Then Dyna declared her intention. He had thought perhaps she would change her mind, would remember all that Runa had done for her, taking her out of the wilds, fulfilling her dream, but it didn't come: she said that she wanted to go to Hoenn, that she wanted no part of a team. After the battle with Manda, she had been calmer, but over the next few days, once it became apparent that Tanwen was leaving, she excited herself, invented (so Gaia told her) a sense of injustice with Runa, who really, she said, forced her to battle. She couldn't trust someone who preached self-direction then broke her own rules and treated her like that. He tried to speak, but she wouldn't hear him—he who after all was cause of everything. And so Dyna was second to leave; so eight months of Runa's life burned up, all the time from Hoenn to Goldenrod wasted, like that.

—It … it's okay, Dyna. I understand. You never wanted to battle anyway. There's lots of Ampharos in Hoenn you can meet. And you'll have Rita there, as well. (Rita looked at Dyna, and Dyna looked away.)

At times—it was miserable to think it, but there it was—at times, he wondered whether Runa really understood them, or was not only lucky in guessing, only making it up. She did make mistakes; and it was true that she never asked directly what were their dreams. But half of that was from them misleading her—Dyna and himself, and the others with their opposing motions. Where did they get the right to abuse Runa so horribly? Runa said that they would take the same flight as Manda to Rustboro, after the ceremonies.

—I don't know how long we'll be in Hoenn. We've … got to decide what to do from here.

For evidently Runa knew more than they did, as out of nowhere, Torus—and with all that time he spent with her, who out of all of them was closest to Runa, most essential!—Torus said that he would leave as well, a thing he'd already agreed with her. He would leave, she said, and work at some research corporation. And at that, he snapped; told the Alakazam that he was a rot who betrayed Runa, that he lied all the time he supported her, only used her for his own advantage. The girls looked at him as if he had gone mad, and he flew out of the room. He'd always assumed that Torus believed in Runa, that in the worst possible case it was Gaia and Torus who'd never leave Runa's side. Why didn't she say something, persuade them, argue for her own happiness? After all that she gave of herself, they left her! It was all a sickening waste. Only when Torus came to him later, when he was knotted up in Runa's bed, did the psychic explain.

—[Runa begins a new phase of her development, where she seeks to develop her own counsel. To assist her now would be to deprive her of necessary future credit.]

In the corporations, Torus said, those involved with her family and family's friends, he would form connections with important people, plant the seeds of sympathetic support for her Academy, for her monist philosophy, whether her parents agreed or not. It sounded more like it was for his own benefit—mightn't Torus persuade anyone of anything? He removed his head from under the pillow but didn't look. He had relied more than he realised on Torus's knowing, that if he lost control near Runa, tried to touch her, someone would be there to stop him.

—[I was never of mind to prevent you acting, whatever may come of your action. You underestimate yourself to think me necessary, or that you must smother your senses with fear. New experiences in new conditions may improve your nature, as they may improve Runa.]

(A servant Pokémon walked down the corridor, but, seeing him curled up at Runa's door, having seen him there the previous morning, she passed by. He remained at the door.)

Psychics only trusted in nature too much, he thought, and not enough a moment's madness. All Runa wanted was for their last few days together to be uninterrupted by people, but it got out: a picture of Tanwen with another team, watching the championship battle; and the last day of the Conference was filled with rumours that Runa's own Pokémon had left her, a background to Manda's triumphant defence.

So the plane landed in Rustboro City where they met Mr. Stone, the very old head of Devon Corporation, and Steven Stone accompanying him, who was kind to Runa but said very little, apart from that they would visit the estate in a couple days; and from there everything was blown out of proportion, with press and cameras all trying to get at Runa, both for herself and in connection with Manda (the reconciliation everyone wanted, they said, for the great falling-out they all pretended). Manda made a stop at the new Yamaguchi Bridge, which after years of construction (partly funded, of course, by the Pondelores' companies) would in six months ferry thousands each day between Hoenn Region and the mainland; but even the freshly re-anointed champion couldn't draw everything off Runa, not so long as every passerby with a phone was stopping to turn photojournalist. It was not until they transferred to the mountain branch that she had some freedom; they had hardly left Rinshin City (again, all built up by the Pondelores) when Apollo (as Runa wasn't speaking, only sometimes looking at one or the other) pointed out the hill which marked the edge of the Pondelores' property; and yet it was half an hour more before the train reached its terminal, and the hill was far out of sight behind them. But that was the point, he thought: the estate was not a single property, a cultured landscape, but rather a private Pokémon reserve, showing on the map as an expanse of green, a great unbounded region where a thousand rangers, they said, worked from such complexes they passed on the route, watching over three hundred species of Pokémon, all of them living almost exactly as in the wilds, except that they were tracked and recorded.

—It's to supply the nurseries. (It was one of the only things Runa said on the way.) That's where the shinies and perfects come from. They sample the valleys and register them, and bring in the statistically better ones for breeding. You know, just like humans.

From the moment she saw the airport terminal, Runa's demeanour began changing, drawing into herself; and by the time they had reached the last valley, he felt, her transformation was complete—no longer the guardian and trainer they knew, but (at least to outward appearances) an isolated and inward-looking girl. As they passed the chief ranger's station, a full village no doubt, she held his neck, said not to go far, not to talk to anyone he didn't know, none but Manda's Pokémon if possible, not even the blue Gardevoir who was aide to her parents. She didn't say it, but clear as anything she needed him and Gaia, he thought—the only ones who hadn't abandoned her—more than she knew how to express.

The house was about as large, he thought, as he'd probably imagined, though it still frightened him to see: as wide as a Goldenrod block, at least, and two stories high with a third in places, all blanched stone with blue-tiled roof and ivy. It was too decorated for his taste—there was a statue of a Ninetales in the front driveway, possibly twenty feet high—built too long ago, and probably dank after centuries of standing, like a cave with its strange emissions. The staff—and there were dozens, both humans and Pokémon, and the Gardevoir that Runa mentioned—all stood in a line to see the daughters returning; and there at the head were the Pondelores, Runa's parents, hands unfolding as the car came to a stop. Runa did hug them, but it wasn't happy; yet clearly they were happy to see her, though they said very little with their first questions, only asking about the trip, didn't ask for introductions to any of them who'd be living there, nor introduce the Gardevoir, who stood beside them. He didn't catch their names, always just 'Mother' and 'Father', or their title from the staff, as like Mr. Game. The lobby was done like a hotel reception, he saw, with trays of things to eat, and seats arranged, and her parents kept asking Runa questions, trying to get her to speak; but presently she said she was tired, and would like to rest, even though it was still light outside, and her parents, looking to one another, said that that was all right, and they would send up a tray, and that her Pokémon would be fed and taken care of, and Apollo took it upon himself to lead her to her room. Wouldn't he be happier, Runa said, as he followed, joining Manda's Pokémon downstairs? for after all they bore no grudge, as Apollo agreed heartily, leading him back to the hall.

—Don't be glum, Shadow! She'll turn around quick, you'll see. It's not like Runa to worry for long.

But after an hour he couldn't bear it any longer, and went up to lie by Runa's door, for as Gaia said,

—Don't be sad.

The staff were instructed to give her time, presumably, for nobody came to her room that night apart from an orderly with a tray of dinner. Was this normal for Runa, at home? She hadn't said much that was good about the place, but then she rarely spoke of her family at all. She said that she wasn't hungry, and let him have it; was surprised to see him there, seemed nearly upset, as if he'd wasted his time in staying. She would offer to let him in, she said, but … He understood. She had to demonstrate that she wasn't so distraught over things that she brought in her Pokémon to cuddle. But he had lost his appetite, and passed up the tray, which another orderly collected after a while.

In the morning, Runa only took a small portion of the breakfast, so that he had to finish the rest, some oats idli and cream and fruit with no flavour. She said again that he ought to spend time with the others, that she felt bad, his waiting outside on her account; but he knew that she didn't mean it, that she was glad he stayed. And was there any better way to demonstrate that he would never leave her, as four already had? Rita had already left the lobby by the time he'd returned with Apollo; Dyna left that morning, he heard, to wander the fields in the valley; but Runa would know that he stayed by her, through anything.

(Far down the hall the blue Gardevoir passed, looking across at him, and he curled tighter. Something about her itched his skin; she had to be privy to every happening, and it seemed impossible that she didn't pry into minds. Surely some psychics broke the rule if it suited them—if it would help the family.)

There was no need for paintings in every hallway, he thought, or a desk, there, with a little cloth, and a dish of scented wood shavings below some plaster ridges on the wall. The hotel in Saffron City, at least, had a purpose of attracting business—what was the point here? There were over a hundred rooms, he heard, but after staff the family were only five: the parents, Manda, Runa, and her younger brother Surya, plus their Pokémon—and with Runa and Manda away it was three, and half the time the three were gone as well, on business or travelling abroad. And then the whole house was just for housekeeping, and employing human staff, and servant Pokémon, who, Runa said, only worked for a living, while the humans were paid—all just to keep a place so unnecessarily large! He couldn't imagine getting used to it; he'd be sure not to enjoy a bit of it, he told Gaia, or Runa would think he grew spoiled. Gaia ate the first night with Manda's Pokémon, but she felt similarly, and the next night she came up to see him, brought him a dish left over, and staying a while to check on Runa—him and Runa, she said.

He would stay, he said, until Runa was ready. For with all the others leaving, he thought, suppose she looked out, meant to let him in, and he was gone? It would be as if he abandoned her. But presently he looked at Gaia and said,

—What if she quits training? Are … are you going to leave?

—Are you?

He would never leave Runa, he said; and if he stayed, Gaia said, so would she, as he needed her.

If Runa came out to say that they were on another journey, would fly that same day, there would be no question about it; rather it would be wonderfully easy, all the rest no longer a factor. (Rotten as it would be to say, there was indeed a lightness about it, a throwing-off of weight: only he and Gaia and Runa!) But Runa wasn't ready for that, Gaia said, not yet. Very well, he thought: he would wait as long as it took, for years and more, if she needed.

And humans grew slowly, he thought, far slower than Pokémon; and at the same time so fast, Runa changing so much in just a few years! She turned sixteen in just one week, an important age for humans, when they officially took on some part of adulthood in society (her parents mentioned it more than once, watched her growth carefully). In the Hoenn tradition, a sixteen-year-old human could start to take on duties in business. Was that a part of their plan for her, he wondered, waiting for her to give up this fancy of training when they already had a champion, and do something more serious with her life? For Runa was at her most vulnerable, now. If they applied any pressure to try and persuade her, would she find herself agreeing against her own character?

None of these people trusted him, or Gaia, he knew. The humans and Pokémon passed and looked (not Manda's Pokémon, not Apollo) and all thought the same thing: that so long as they lingered, there was a chance she flew off again, tried to start another team, her third; and this time, they thought, they could not be so lenient, and her parents would have to act before her.

* * *

Perhaps that was why some trainers only kept dragons: loyalty, which quality they'd learned by experience was by far the thing that mattered most in friends. The orderly had left a message asking if she was coming for dinner, as Mr. Stone and his son were visiting, and after a while they heard Runa moving inside, and as she came out, he could see, she had meant to look strong, as if nothing below would affect her; but seeing both him and Gaia waiting for her, Gaia joining in the afternoon, she teared up, kissed both of them. She apologised; she was like a child, she said, moping in her room.

—You must be starving, she said.

There was a ridiculous custom in the house, she said, about humans and Pokémon eating separately; but they'd be pleased enough that she came, she said, that they could get away with breaking it—and if not, she'd eat with them in the Pokémon dining hall. Gaia pushed him on and said he could go, as she was really too big for the table. So Runa said to ignore any looks, and only stay by her side. —I could just use a bit of your strength, right now, she said. What else could he do? It had to be a strong tradition: only Steven Stone did not look twice. Wasn't Steven a champion of Hoenn? He could not be much younger than Runa's parents, had a very light shade of hair.

"I'm so happy your Alakazam will be joining us," said Mr. Stone. (Steven Stone's father was quite old, had to be right on the edge of a human lifespan, sat very largely in his seat, at the far end opposite Surya, ordered perhaps by age.) "He'll have a spot in any department he likes, of course. But I do hope he'll have time to look at the PokéNav! I'm sure with his interest we can revive the translator—before Raphael tries to steal him, that is. Ha ha!"

Devon Corporation, he gathered, had employed psychics for years, so Torus was not the first given favour—this sort of thing being not a deal but a courtesy, to help a family friend, give Runa's Alakazam a job. The families had a history going back centuries (if he still rightly recalled the programme), them and a few others—the Blacks, the Medivicis. Between those few families, he knew, stood a wealth exceeding some ten trillion yen, and in recent times, as the Diet renewed itself, its growth only continued faster. And perhaps they were not always personal friends, and some of those glower-faced portraits in the halls didn't get on with their Stone counterparts, but such feelings would be nothing to the sense of joint destiny, the traditional alliance of a few families who, for all others knew, controlled the world. So Mr. Stone and the Pondelores spoke about nothing very specific, really just catching up, yet to be present at even such idle conversation, to hear about some project or other between the usual questions, he began to form an image of empire; of structures; things affecting millions which, though he lacked the knowledge to understand it, as he felt their gravity, their immense influence, he coiled up at Runa's side, looking just above the table.

Across from them Manda ate, all her Pokémon away, looking up now and then at the person speaking, to Steven more than the others; at the nearest end Surya Pondelore sat and arranged his food, once offering him a fork with leaves, dripping oil on the table, which he wasn't sure whether to take, if it might reflect badly on Runa, until Runa looked at her brother and said he made a mess. Then she began to slip things into tissues and put them at the edge of her chair: a ball of rice, a pita filled with sweet sauce. Then Manda said—and what did she know? he thought, felt himself flushing all over—that he might prefer something made for Pokémon; and Runa said that he'd been sharing her trays since arriving, and that Apollo, if she remembered, was fond of splitting them with her as well, and then the others made an effort to change the conversation.

"We had over Alex last week," Mrs. Pondelore said to Mr. Stone, "and showed him the Rinshin proposal. He said his first responsibility wasn't just to the people, but the Shroomish as well. So we explained how the greenbelt infrastructure would expand their habitat—"

"Not to mention the city," said Mr. Pondelore.

"I think he understood," said Mrs. Pondelore. "If not, he'll come around, I think, when the city hears about it."

Mr. Stone said, "Splendid! Anything that helps Rinshin helps the whole coast. And its Pokémon, of course!" He looked at Steven, who took very small bites of food.

The Pondelores, he understood, had not much influence in Johto, which was to say merely a great amount, against what in Hoenn was enormous. They knew everyone of even a little importance—business leaders, politicians, media people, the champions—easy enough when there were two in their own families, two in this very room! But now Mr. Stone wanted his son to take over Devon Corporation, just as they suggested that some day Manda may take up the reins from her parents (she did not look up)—and so on, he thought, for another generation. But what if Manda only wanted to train, to be the Indigo Champion? They looked to Runa; she held him out of sight below the table. Surya looked back and forth between them.

In a way, Runa had never really escaped. (She and Manda shared that, he thought, this chain to their family.) For she might have lived on the stipend, lived like any other trainer, and been happy, but instead she used her family's wealth for her Pokémon's comfort, so that they could have what they wanted; and now, he felt, seeing them look, it was as if she did just as they expected, as if she proved that she couldn't really survive on her own. They seemed to think, he felt, that she proved herself dependent. And openly she held her tissue in her hand, folded it so as not stick to the sweetened vegetable roll, which she whispered he had to try, and by which she seemed to answer all of them: You won't control me. They would not hear an admission, what they wanted, that her project had failed, that Pokémon were not as she imagined. But Mrs. Pondelore smiled; Mr. Pondelore smiled; no one said anything, just that Hoenn was warmer than Johto, that the air in Silver Town must have been very fresh, for the mountains were cold, whereas Hoenn would be like living on a beach again.

Mr. Pondelore said, "Tell us, Steven, how's your transition to business going?"

Steven Stone finished eating his bite. "It's going well," he said. "Father could retire in a year, if he likes."

—Talking for the sake of it. It's considered bad form to have a real discussion.

So Runa had described her family's society; and now, he thought, he understood her meaning, for they all knew how Steven Stone was doing, how his business went, but the question wasn't asked to learn something. Sometimes humans adapted too far (he knew better now), actually became so moulded to a new condition that they could not escape in thinking, more even than unadapted Pokémon—like a liquid run away down a hole, where a Pokémon never fit from the start. (Steven was different, Runa always said; she was glad that he came for dinner.) They wouldn't talk about what really mattered: Manda's victory over Runa; Runa's feelings on her journey, or her philosophy, now that it was developed; her Pokémon; her own opinions.

Mr. Stone beamed and said, "I tell you, my boy's a natural! He's … Well, you know how proud I am, son—I won't embarrass you."

Steven Stone took another bite and said, "Thank you, Father."

It was horrible, he thought; it was like discovering one's pillow had the face of a Ditto! Steven Stone was one of the top champions of the last century, all the shows said, and what was this, stuffing him into managing a business, urging him to settle down? But family, they would say, looking at Runa: Won't you care about the family? So family became not so much a part of oneself as like a body commanding its members, its obedient arms, having them spend their lives for its sake, for the sake of dead generations, even though all that really existed were the seven of them in a room. Were the Pondelores, as a thing, not simply the five of them? or were they an idea, a force that went back out of sight behind them? Following the pictures in the hall, not all the Pondelores looked like Runa, some darker, some lighter, and at certain points changing in appearance entirely. For when the family didn't continue—when the two girls, say, and the boy of a family did not put on the mantle and take up the duel responsibilities of business and children, and hang all their other dreams and desires—it went to another, some like-minded disciple the parents chose; and then they became the new family, the Pondelores, now dark-skinned and living in Hoenn, where once they were pale-skinned Kalosians. But then why put any pressure on sons and daughters at all? What was the benefit of greater wealth, of a dynasty, if it only hurt oneself or one's children?

"Of course, he'll still train," said Mr. Stone.

But that Gardevoir was watching again, he saw, standing at the back of the room—she had to know everything. Torus said the psychic rule was paramount; but this blue Gardevoir, he saw, was in a photograph of the family when it was only her parents and Manda, just a little girl: so she must be very dedicated to them, to the future dynasty, and then what did she think of him with Runa? But there was no risk at all, Torus said, an Alakazam—none. He looked away. Runa had another spring roll in her napkin: he took it, felt suddenly hungry again.

Mrs. Pondelore—but he did not keep his head low enough, watching Runa's hand—said, "Runa, you know that he could have anything he likes, just next door."

Runa wiped her fingers on the napkin, dropped it on the table. "He likes being with me," she said. "I'm his trainer. Why wouldn't a Pokémon and his trainer eat together?"

Manda looked down at her dish, cleaning it of sour cream with a piece of naan, and said, "It's not how you usually feed them, is it, from your own mouth?"

Now they were arguing—were they arguing?—all on his account, for her mother cut her off, said Manda's name with that sort of tone, her daughter even if a champion. "You know why, Runa," she said. "It's enough for the staff to prepare two menus without mixing up the delivery. He could have anything he wants next door."

But Runa looked at Manda. "Did you know that almost every restaurant in Johto lets Pokémon at the table?" she said.

Manda pulled over a dish with an orange sauce, began dipping her naan again, and said, "We don't often have time for restaurants." Which, he thought, just went to show why Apollo preferred Runa, for didn't he rave about how Runa seemed delightful? But Mr. Pondelore cleared his throat and asked Steven Stone about his latest journey to the Sevii Islands, and the conversation went on.

Now Runa pulled the dish of spring rolls across the table, gave it to him quite openly, stroked his nose and said, turning to her brother, "How's Bonsai? I heard you've been training him a bit. Is he any different?"

Bonsai, he remembered, was Surya's only Pokémon: Runa's brother fancied becoming an artist, and nearly every day sat drawing atop the shiny Torterra's back as he slept outside. Surya said, "He's great! Last week he used Razor Leaf on a Beedrill nest, and all the Beedrill came flying out, and Lucius scared them off!"

Runa said, "I hope you're not raising him that way. He was always really nice."

Looking over the table, he saw her brother flush. "They were stealing my juice," he said. "I only left it a second."

"Well," said Runa, placing a dish of plum sauce by the rolls. "Beedrill do love juice."

"Tell her about Dilo," Manda said, not looking up from her food.

Runa put her hand on him under the table. Who was it? he thought. And Runa did not want to hear, he saw, wanted Surya to think better of it, her face turning very stiff.

Surya said, "Oh! He's breeding really well! Europa and him even laid two shinies! They're both girl Totodiles. Hey, don't you need new Pokémon for your team? Maybe you can have one!"

"No," Runa said. "No, I'm … That's fine."

Now he understood, he thought—now he had a name. A dozen candidates he saw—a Feraligatr? a Meganium, perhaps (Dilo sounded like a Meganium)—something large and lumbering and gruff with torn petals, who never obeyed her and was really all to blame when they said that they no longer trusted her to train Pokémon. According to some instrument or computer this Dilo, or was it Europa? but this shiny in any case was the best possible, had six thirty-ones; and so when he failed due to his own rotten character, things which didn't show on the papers, like Tanwen, and they blamed her, took away her other Pokémon, it was a great injustice, which she did not forget. Manda brought it up because she was a rotten sister who wanted to put her in her place. Her parents looked now to see if something was about to start, only wanted it all to be forgotten, for they knew Runa was in the right but couldn't apologise as parents had to look firm. And while any random chance may have kept him and Runa from ever meeting, sleeping an hour longer and missing the prize catcher, Runa walking another block and never seeing the Corner, this, he felt, was more the case than all of them, that he was only with Runa because they took her team away. And now that it happened a second time, all gone again but him and Gaia, as her family now was watching her so closely, did she think it possible—? For she held him close; and there, she looked at the Gardevoir, as if to say they were too quick in hoping, that this time they wouldn't be taking him. He pressed his head against her leg, under the table, and she held his neck. She must have had them for years, her old Pokémon; most trainers began at age ten, earlier with tuition, but Runa did not arrive in Johto until she was thirteen and a half, and yet not once did she mention them—only knew at all because Apollo let it slip. Was her old team on the estate now? Would she ask they return them, now that she proved herself with badges, even if not her team's loyalty? Suppose there were more than four and, knowing them for longer overall, there wasn't space? (But he was running away with it again, he knew, letting his worry expand itself.) Manda asked Steven about the Hoenn Championship, something about how quickly eight gyms had ever been completed; Mr. Pondelore said something about Surya needing to finish his vegetables; and Runa touched his feathers under the table.

Runa stood and said, "I'm done. Would you send my dessert next door? For Polo."


	16. Level 55 - Hoenn Estate (Scene 3)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Runa took some pickled nigauri to the Pokémon dining room for Dyna; but finding that Dyna was outside in the fields, and that Apollo wanted her to stay, joining him and Gaia who sat together, she excused herself, said that he was tired, that she would show him to the Pokémon quarters since he hadn't been yet, and led him out into the hall.

That was all an invention on the spot, he knew, for hardly had they left and turned the corner when she stopped and threw her arms around him. She was sorry for everything, she said, and should never have come to dinner, to Hoenn. Had he not been there beside her, she said, she would have died. Now she just wanted to be alone—with him, she said—would carry him if only she could. (What she did to him with only words like that, she couldn't know.) There was a study where she used to read; nobody would bother them there, she said.

It was a library, in fact, and quite large, with windows which would face out onto the yard, see right across the valley which stretched for miles, except that all the curtains were shut. Runa turned on a lamp and dimmed it, and falling back onto a long couch, suddenly she sniffed and wiped her eyes; and now there was nothing whatever he could do: his mind went blank entirely. For how in the world did he comfort Runa? It was she who always cared for them, but now, that all that supported her had crumbled … And all he'd been thinking was how he felt with her, how he grew warm and she mustn't leave him!

"I'm sorry, Shadow," she said.

Nothing whatever had changed, she said. It was all as before: they wanted her to be like them, thought her ideas were sweet and foolish, had indulged her, would continue to indulge her, perhaps, but considered their view corroborated. The deal in Saffron City was to reach the final—reach it, and they would lend support to her school, her philosophy. They wanted evidence, a confirmation; and then Manda entered and ruined everything. Of course they planned it, only used Manda's want to prove herself in the double League as an excuse. She had tried, they thought, and failed wonderfully, for now her team had collapsed as well, and it only went to prove their thinking.

She looked away at the curtains. Never had he been so useless! he thought. There was nothing to say, to do. He wasn't Torus, or Gaia; he couldn't find the simple gesture which most eased her mind without overreaching. But if all he wanted was for Runa's happiness (not all he wanted, was the matter) why was it so difficult to simply hold her, to touch, and make her feel better? And she looked away—didn't think it his part to comfort her, only hers to him.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her nose—"I'm, I'm being such a kid."

"[D— Don't,]" he said.

"I am," she said, looking back towards the door. "I'm proving their point, aren't I?"

For it would have been better if they criticised her directly, she said, than to pretend it never happened—to only smile and welcome her back, a wayward teenager just a little while delayed. She didn't hate them—they only wanted best, whatever they understood it to be—but (and this was horribly spoilt, she said, felt bad just to say) it might have been better, she said, if they only cut her off, released her on her own way. Lacking certainty of whether she could survive on her own, and coming back only because it was easier, it might be better that they forced her to discover her own resources. But that was only her emotional response, she said, for Clair was right (and why did she listen to Clair?) that she was stubborn and foolish. As trainer, as guardian, she said, it was her fault if the team failed, her failure to understand, and her nature flawed. Yet anyone could prove her wrong! he thought, anyone see that this did not explain Tanwen's vanity, Rita's selfishness, Dyna's indifference and then Torus's quitting, he claimed, for rational reasons, to say nothing of his own feelings. No, he thought, Runa said her nature failed, that her emotions affected her, but that was not a flaw—and even if it was, was it shameful?

"I wish I could talk to Pokémon," she said. "Sometimes, I … I wish I were one. Then I'd understand better, and not mess everything up."

And were he a human, he thought, were he some combination of the two, would he be any more able to act, to comfort her as she sat with her arms around her knees, he laying dumbly by her side? What would he say, if he could? The most important person … Certainly a genius … Necessary to live. No. It was all rot, all words; none of it approached the heart of it; none of it said what he felt, what he wanted. I only want the best for Pokémon, she said. But how to say what he wanted?

There was one way, he knew, that Runa always interpreted fondly. The back of the couch was broad, wide enough he need not touch her hair; he was long for a Dragonair, long enough that with his middle above her, he still had length to curl around and touch his nose to her leg. Whenever she was most troubled in the tournament, felt worried about the team, that was all it took to calm her: a touch, and a feather to stroke.

She didn't look, didn't want him to feel upset, he thought; but presently she laid her hand on his neck, stroked him with her fingers, and began to calm, only sniffed to clear herself until her flush began to fade. And then she was Runa again: five or ten years more mature than her age suggested, looking as if at something far away through the curtains, back to calm, to collection; ready to restock her reserves, and reform things, recalculate their direction.

"It really is for the better," she said, and smiled at him, holding his head on her lap. "Tan was never happy … Now she has a chance. I should have sent Rita here earlier, too, and she'd have lots of friends by now. I should have brought more Pokémon than her—someone else who could have battled, so I didn't have to do that to Dyna. I hope she forgives me … I hope, maybe here, she'll figure out what she wants, and she'll be happier after all. But don't be mad at Torus." She touched his cheek: anything she liked, he thought. "He's not gone forever. It's just that he has a plan for getting more done. He's getting the sort of experience that I can't give him. But he'll be back, some day."

She paused for a long moment. He was not even as warm as he expected—only felt a pure love, he thought, no other senses involved in it. Everything was improving: Runa would be happy from here on up: his feelings would mature and fall entirely within his control, and all would be well, he and Runa and Gaia, no one left to argue.

"And Gaia won't leave us," Runa said.

Us! he thought. It was as if she kissed him on the nose. And it was not a question, he thought, but she looked at him, as if to ask about her. Did she really wonder? Didn't the Blackthorn paper only talk about her dragons? Didn't the people in Silver Town always look at Gaia first? Hadn't she made it clear to Runa, as she had to him?

—What if she quits training? Are you going to leave if she does?

—Are you?

—No! I'll never leave Runa!

—Then I won't either. You need me as much as she does.

He shook his head; and Runa smiled, brushed her thumb against his cheek. He felt a shiver run down his length, which as opposite to the warmth which now was building, left him, he felt, for a moment nearly paralysed. She had to feel it, see it, even, looking right at him; but he still had himself in control, still had a grip on the thing—

"And you, you won't—" she said, but looked away.

At that, he felt, something collapsed; some barrier failed inside him. To even imagine that he might consider leaving her—! And now he kissed his nose to her chin; now he found his cheek pressed against her, had to check that his horn did not gash her, quite entirely out of his mind before he recognised. Now all his senses were instinct—this was where one slip in an instant left him, smothering his face in Runa, his feathers on her neck! And Runa was surprised: she cradled his head against her, shushed him not to worry, as if he were some parent's child. He felt her hair touching his middle as he contracted; scarcely heard her shushing as she kissed him on the nose.

"I never doubted," she said.

What he had refused to let expand in him since he heard it—that he was her favourite—now was playing in his mind, his nature affecting him at the worst possible time: for if he was her favourite, if she could never stand to be without, wouldn't she be receptive, flattered even, if he should admit that he loved her? Wouldn't she hold him, just so? Humans talked of humans abusing one another, of somehow forcing demonstrations of love by violence, but if that was impossible, as Torus thought, if he went limp at the least thought of harming her, was it a harm only to kiss her, to approach her chin? Runa being so nearly perfect, the idea that she felt warmest toward him of all creatures seemed impossible, but there it was: there it was, his head in her arms, holding him against her breast. Perhaps it was that he was so thoroughly flawed, suffered so much more than the others (so she said to Torus), that there was a pity; a maternal warmth; an abstract delight, even, as the perfect fit for her philosophy. If she could prove that he had worth, she reasoned, she had proved it for every Pokémon. Then suppose she never loved him that way, he thought—clear as it was that the thing was impossible, something he read in her philosophy from want alone—suppose he never felt a kiss with the meaning he wished behind it. That would be all right. For what were all those rotten fantasies next to this, higher than any he imagined? In his worst fantasies, when he dreamt of lying with Runa, like this, she was removed of what made her herself; became some different character, fully complicit; possessed of a love stronger than his, of course, and hence an excuse to forgive his behaviour. She was less alive: she was nothing, really, that he loved in Runa. That was the worst of his nature, when it attracted him towards a worse image: that was the rot. But this, in her arms, not liking him for his skin, but his character—wasn't this greatest of all cases, this now?

"I'm just silly, Shadow," Runa said—"I don't deserve you, or Gaia." He turned his head, his nose pressing closer. "Oh, it's true. You don't know how silly I've been. … Remember how I told you that Gaia was named after a god in mythology, like Apollo was? Gaia the earth-mother—some say the one who laid Arceus' egg, others say Palkia, who created earth. There's a song I used to love when I was younger, where I got the name—hers and yours. Do you want to hear?"

It was entirely possible, he thought, that he would faint in her hands, feeling her voice through his feathers, Runa singing to him—he nodded. "It's an old Kalosian lullaby," she said, "about one of the ancient Pondelores, they say. I can't sing it like my parents did." She was uncomfortable, he felt; she hadn't sung it to anyone before, or perhaps only at first to Tanwen; and now he was the new first Pokémon, with Gaia, first who pressed against her. Runa sang:

Little warrior girl, from the little valley,  
Out into the world, marching for her family,  
Little golden curl, gone to make her destiny,  
Dragon-hearted pearl, when will you return to me?

He was going to faint, he thought. The song rose and fell again in steps, like a little march over hillsides, warrior in two beats, valley in three, and now he was melting, he felt, couldn't hear for a moment. She was singing about herself—that was her idea as she heard it, the young Runa—it was her start, perhaps, her idea to spread her belief in Pokémon, to march out, lift him up, carry him as like her banner; not a champion's banner, not of battling (what a trivial thing that seemed now!) but representing a new future, a way. That was how she always dreamt it, as her mother or father had sung it when she was very small, to inspire her; so her love of Pokémon had blossomed. (But she was already partway through another verse.)

Bring to Kalos unity, a ring of light begun,  
Melt the marbled snow with the white fire of the sun.

The pattern changed, rose up a step between white and fire (that was the meaning of Tanwen's name, she once said; and a torus, too, was a kind of ring); and now he couldn't hear again, not the next verse, as a great wave of heat—For an instant he thought that he was evolving, his vision full of white specks. But he was still with Runa, still singing, yet quite awake, every point of skin, he felt, at the peak of awareness, as if a brush with death (perhaps nearly so) had rendered him hypersensitive; and once more, he thought, blink once more, and he would be all over Runa, even kissing her on the cheek, as she struggled to escape.

Her pace quickened, and she sang in rising steps:  
Fly away and found for us the future heart of history,  
Set yourself in stone and save your liberty,  
Like the legendary beasts a better world create,  
From the end of the skies,

—and the steps fell—

to the earth-mother's shadow.

She drew the last word out, and he understood: his name, with Gaia. What the words meant all together, he didn't know, never had a grip on that sort of language, but there they were—nestled at the end like a little parcel in a bag. And as if to look a long moment, before replacing every cloth to safely cover it, Runa leant her head closer and sang the last verse.

Little warrior girl, from the little valley,  
Gone into the world, gone now from her family,  
Little ivy curl, Kalos is her legacy,  
Dragon-hearted pearl, when will I become as she?

After a long moment, Runa sniffed and slipped her hands down his neck. "It's morbid," she said, not looking at him, "but every time heard it, I imagined it was me … like I was some warrior who fought in a great battle, back in medieval Kalos. I was going off alone and doing something great, even if I didn't survive in the end, because I thought, at the time, that's what it took to be special. And then, when I understood it better, I wanted to go off on adventures with Pokémon, and become a champion—and then I wanted to build a new way of training, to honour the family. And then, I thought, with Pokémon, maybe they could be my family … one who loved me for who I was, not who I might be."

Runa said nothing for a while; and as he was about to move away from her, as he imagined now she would collect herself, and notice how closely he pressed, even as she held him, she sniffed—sniffed, and touched her head to his.

"It's terrible to say," she said, "and, and I know it makes me a bad person … but I'm okay if they go. I can make peace with it. Maybe even Gaia, if it's what she wanted." But she looked at him, and smiled, and held his cheeks with both hands.

"But if you …"

He couldn't help it: the image came so clearly. He would stretch across the inches between them and kiss her on the lip; and she would fall back along the couch, pulling him over, wrapping her legs around his middle. Every part of her face and neck he would smother, and every part of his she would stroke and kiss. She would sink into his middle, because she wanted to feel him; she would remove her shirt, because clothing was coarse. He would be completely limp in her arms, surrounding her, melting onto her, and fall asleep with his head against hers, his nose on a cushion of sweetened hair between her neck and shoulder. One night like that, he thought, pressed against Runa … But the door was not even locked. He looked at her—she was watching him. She had to know everything, read it through his eyes, his face all pink, saw him looking at her mouth, her neck, far too long a moment! She said it to check him, and he answered: she would fling him away any moment, watch him burst into a thousand bits of blackened skin. For she knew everything, had changed her expression, her mouth open, her neck tense, about to ask him what he was doing, about to move away—everything, she knew.

"Shadow," she said. "I don't want to hurt you."

He was going to die tonight, he thought. The big wave had come and there was nothing to stop it this time, now that he was alone with Runa, all the others gone and unable to stop him, and she as much as admitting that she knew everything, that she didn't want to see him destroy himself. Already it was up his middle, his neck, and now—

But whatever fate, he thought, controlled things (for things like this had to make one philosophical, or believe in curious powers) had a strange way about it—either looking out for and prolonging the most wretched souls, suspending their destruction out of hope that they recovered, or, what seemed more likely, finding them wretched and knowing that in some way they deserved it, and so acting to cut off every circumstance which might end their tortuous condition—whatever fate had a strange way about it, for at that instant, the door knocked.

They both jumped; and whatever had happened between them at once was broken, he felt, and he flung himself into the couch's corner, buried his head under a pillow. It was her chance to escape, he meant, to take whatever person's hand and run; but as if nothing had changed at all between them, she only lifted his tail to curl up with the rest of him, sniffed, and brushed herself down, and said, "Yes,"—but she knew. She touched his tail, but she had to know. (If she said anything about wanting to go, some code, he'd be sure.) The door opened, and he heard a footstep into the room.

"Runa?" It was Steven Stone. "I'm sorry. If this is a bad time …"

The man was looking at him, he felt, wondering perhaps if he'd done something, looking for Runa to confirm it.

Runa said, "No," and blew her nose, had taken a tissue from somewhere. "It's fine—come in."

So she would pretend nothing was the matter—unless she really didn't notice, and he mistook her meaning—but put it all aside for the moment. For Steven Stone was a great champion, and even as a friend of the family it wasn't usual that such people wanted to talk.

"Is he all right?" the man said; he coiled tighter.

"He's … upset," Runa said. "For the team." (So she would lie for him—or did she really think that?—but didn't want to discuss it with Steven.) "I thought you'd be at dinner still. It can't be done already."

Steven Stone walked into the room, towards the curtains, he heard, but did not sit. "I made my excuses," he said. "You'll forgive me saying such dinners are a bit pompous, especially after a tournament. The truth is I wanted to speak with you. It's actually why I came here with Father."

And what did he want with Runa? He turned to look from under the pillow: the man was looking out toward the windows, though they were drawn, and the room was dim.

The man said, "Looking beyond its loss, your team's performance in the tournament was remarkable. Nobody expected you to win the title. Making the top eight in your first championship is impressive—even Red only made the top sixteen in his first attempt."

"In half the time," she said, but quietly.

Steven Stone smiled and said, "Yes, well. He also had more than five Pokémon, and he wasn't battling the defending champion, and he wasn't pioneering a new style." The man leaned against a table, looking aside at the bookshelves. "So the quarterfinal puts you in, what, the ninety-seventh percentile in the Conference, doesn't it? Which itself is the top five percent or so of trainers in Johto—so the ninety-nine-point-ninth, rounding up. That's not a bad showing for a new trainer. Perhaps your family or some industry wonks don't recognise it, but the champions do."

Runa looked away. But why mention numbers? he thought. Wasn't Steven of the older school, before all that?

Steven Stone said, "You know we keep an eye on rising trainers. There's no such thing as a conference without several former champions in observance. Did you know that Lance personally saw your last few battles? He suggested I watch the recordings, and I did—in fact, I've spent the last week studying your time in Johto, scrounging up every paper. On some level it's intimidating, seeing your Pokémon battle without a single command, and yet with the success you've had so far. It shows a degree of trust in Pokémon which most trainers never form, frankly exceeding anything we've seen. And you did it without any precedent or guide, at your age. In many ways, to many of us champions, your accomplishment was more impressive than Manda's."

And why couldn't this man have said such things at dinner, he thought, and not let them treat Runa like a child? Didn't she burst into tears right after? They thought her a failure, that the loss proved her method was nonsense, but here, a champion of Hoenn, said that she was exceptional, and better than Manda! Just one word of praise, an interview, a single informed voice against her critics, might have been enough to keep Tanwen, to save the team from collapsing.

Runa pulled up her legs and said, "Really,"—for she felt the same, he knew.

The man frowned and put his hands in his pockets, looking back at the curtains. "I appreciate if you take a dim view, hearing this only now," he said, "but you know the champions don't endorse trainers. And understand, we're still hardly sure what to make of you. I won't say that you came out of nowhere—that's not a thing, in our families—but how you've emerged as a trainer? Well, sometimes even I'm not immune to thinking your family's a bit charmed."

"I think it doesn't take a champion to see where battling's headed," Steven Stone said. "You know what they mean when they say 'pondelorian', sparing no expense. Within a generation, the only way trainers will win a championship is by doing likewise; and as the stipend won't cover it, most will have to take sponsorships, and accept managers, against which friendship and the needs of Pokémon become secondary. Enough proteins and exercise can turn almost any Pokémon into a championship contender; but there's no protein which can substitute the bond between Pokémon and trainer. I think, perhaps, you won't be offended if I suggest that Manda's a glimpse of this future. Which isn't to say that she doesn't love her Pokémon; but if everyone followed her example, there'd be enough new trainers with ability both in battling and marketing, but not in feeling friendship, that teams built on trust and understanding would be displaced by those built only on discipline, and the lot of Pokémon would suffer. As champions sworn to protect Pokémon, this isn't something we want to see.

"That's what interests us about you, Runa. Just as battling moves towards reducing Pokémon, you give yours trust and self-control to an unparallelled degree. The success of your team comes down to your friendships, how you listen and understand one another, in a way that recent training has forgotten. We're very interested in seeing how you develop from here—and, as it would seem you're no longer competing, we're willing to give more than our silent approval."

Runa had been turning in her seat as he was speaking, didn't like him saying that about Manda—didn't like people abusing her sister, he thought, even after everything. But those were kind things to say about Runa, very kind! Steven was as much as saying that she ought to be the champion. She looked at him in the couch's corner, and she did not seem afraid.

"Do you know about the Pokémon I've raised?" she said.

Steven Stone seemed to hesitate. "I know they haven't all worked out," he said.

"Well, that's just it," Runa said. "So far they've all left but Shadow and Gaia, and Torus." (He was not ruled out just yet!) "The top-eight team you talked about doesn't exist any more. So thank you for saying, Steven, but I don't know how it changes anything—or that anything's been proved."

They were very familiar, he thought—something about wealth that made titles or formalities either very important or not at all. Runa, as she saw through all that, judged others by their qualities, and so with Steven also. (But she never called her parents anything but Mother or Father.) Oh, he thought, she ought to listen! Steven Stone, perhaps, would persuade her, and make her feel better for everything. For they would have been the closest of friends, if Steven were not over thirty years older, and stuck in business, and a champion since before she was born; for they were closer in thinking, which perhaps was all that mattered, than her own family.

Steven brought his thumb and finger to his mouth. "Yes, we're still not sure what to make of that," he said, "though I think I can speak for the other champions in saying that we don't make of it quite what the press did. You're young, and there's little precedent for your approach to training, so it doesn't tell much that they left. But I've got my own thinking, if you'd like to hear."

"Please," Runa said.

Steven brushed his hands and said, "It's bad luck."

Runa looked at him. "I'm sorry?" she said.

"It's just bad luck," the man said, holding his hands behind his back. "I know I don't know them personally, but you learn a thing or two after forty years' training, and I can tell the difference between an ill-treated Pokémon and one who just feels ill-treated by her trainer. I'm not going to stand here and psychoanalyse your Pokémon, but some just don't take to their trainer quickly, and fight a long time before respect builds. Without some discipline—without some form of education, to make future quality if not immediate happiness—that respect can take even longer to build; and just like a few bad students in a class, once they realise their teacher won't punish them, they bring the whole thing into disorder. I'm not saying you needed to punish them, of course: I'm just suggesting that, perhaps, they didn't trust you had a plan. Take your two dragons." Steven Stone nodded toward him. "They trust you, and they've thrived. That's what Lance tells me, that there's something going on if they could evolve so quickly—and I defer to his judgement when it comes to dragons. You're mature for your age, Runa, but this thinking is new enough that I'm not surprised if some of your team felt dissatisfied. As it stands, with this experience, I don't imagine any future Pokémon of yours would turn away, not with two dragons helping you."

Helping, he thought—Runa's aides, her closest companions, in a new team centred around her. Runa said nothing, but touched his tail—perhaps she really saw nothing?—and he let the pillow fall away.

Now Steven took a different tone and said, "Runa, do you know much about the work done by the champions in fighting threats to Pokémon and the world? Maybe you remember the second Rayquaza incident, when Team Rift tried to capture the weather trio—you would have been very young." There was a show about that, he remembered: decades ago two villainous teams fought each other, tried to create more land or ocean using legendary Pokémon, and then years later their remnants merged and tried something similar, to create their own island continent, from which they'd rule the world.

"I remember the rain," Runa said. "I know you helped to calm the legendaries and restore order."

"Well," Steven said, "I wasn't alone. In times of crisis, yes, champions tend to get involved; every few years, it seems, some team of thugs—Rocket, Galactic, Plasma, Flare—some malcontents get together and try something, and then we work together to stop them; and usually we have some help from the Diet, but more so, or more affectingly, the help of certain young trainers, as the times require."

Runa said, "You make it sound like a secret society."

And Steven Stone smiled, and said, "Well, I don't know about society. But there's a … compact of sorts between us champions and certain trainers. Most of us gained our titles through our bonds with Pokémon; we're hardly going to sit by with folded hands as one criminal gang after the other tries to enslave them. Hence the Pokémon Leagues, to provide these mighty trainers." Steven smiled again. "You didn't think they were all for sport, did you? When the tournaments started, millenia ago, it was to discover heroes who might keep in check rampaging legendaries—and to stop humans who'd use them to dominate. With so much at stake, there's hardly a point in turning down allies, whether it's the Diet or trainers without a title. That's why I wanted to speak with you, Runa. We're all in accord about this—even Manda. We'd like you to help us out."

All his life, he thought, they had teased him for elevating humans, those Dratini laughing and frowning, Rita rolling her eyes and adjusting her silk scarf—all living in a world invented by humans and thinking nothing of it. They took it as granted that things were so, as if civilisation were not an active condition, at any moment able to fly apart if only people rejected it; and that was not a view unique to Pokémon, but many humans as well: life went on, they thought, the cycle smooth and eternal, perhaps wobbling at times but impossible to jam or fall off the axle. A secret society, he thought; a compact, which unbeknown to all defended the entire world, fought back the bad elements, at times the only thing keeping the wheel intact … which sort of service not even the legendaries did, but half the time were part of the problem. And the champions told no one, so as to keep things calm, but now the champion Steven Stone told Runa, for Runa, he said, was one of the great ones, the very sort they needed. And wasn't that, he thought, as she looked at him, just the thing she needed? Her family would be mad to ignore her with the champions' support—perhaps wouldn't need her parents at all.

Runa looked at Steven, as if to say that he was being absurd, yet couldn't say how. "I don't have a team," she said. "Aside from two."

"Well, we don't have a crisis," Steven said, "so that's all right. But just as one may develop, so may a team. You already have two fine Pokémon with you, capable, as you've taught them, of teaching others, both in battling and in understanding your approach to things. Then there are probably a few Pokémon in these valleys who'd like to join Runa Pondelore's team. And I might know a person or two who can help your new family get started."

And Runa laughed, sobbed, composed herself at once. "Some family," she said, stroking his tail—all forgotten now, he thought, or never seen—"with someone like me behind it."

Just once, he thought (though her modesty was one of the highest things about her), couldn't she leap on a happy thing, and not feel that she didn't deserve it? The champions debated and judged her worthy—more impressive than Manda, Steven said—wanted to see her method grow, to change the whole institution of battling. Did she really doubt her answer? He folded over the couch's arm, put his head just peeking over, and trilled; she smiled, and touched his tail.

"Of course I'll help," she said, and laughed. "Why wouldn't I?"

Steven said, as if to clarify, as if it wasn't clear that she accepted, "This doesn't mean changing your method—that's the point. All that happens is you carry on, but with our help if you think you need it. Forget the tournaments and rankings; making your team is all that's important. But maybe I'm running ahead too far. Were you planning on competing again? Or is it that your team, as it stands, doesn't want it?"

"Gaia wants it," Runa said. "Eventually. But she doesn't mind waiting, either … and she likes teaching. Doesn't she, Shadow? She's always helping you whenever you ask her. She could help to train the whole team!"

She meant it was a release, he thought, from so many hours a day, with now a veteran like Gaia to help her. Losing some of that, she meant, she might put more energy into seeing they turned out right. But there was no question, he thought, that Runa still trusted him—she saw nothing. But so close he came to kissing her! actually felt himself moving, about to do it, only saved by Steven's interruption. Not even laying with her in the Dark Cave did he feel so affected. It was one thing to have Runa's attention, her time, now that the team had broken, yet at this rate, he felt, with Runa clinging to him as a sort of last survivor, he might burn up any minute—better a whole family, as Steven said, four or more new Pokémon to ration her time. (His reserves were returning; he was being sensible again, he thought.) Gaia would be their disciplined teacher, helping Runa to raise half a dozen from the egg who would grow to love her unconditionally. She would perfect her method, would form after proving herself her Academy, and having the champions behind her, not even her parents could stop it! And the three of them, he saw, would always be together, stretching on for the rest of life, all matured and evolved—Runa, and Gaia, all he needed.

"Tell me," Steven said, now holding a tablet in his hand, "do you have a favourite type?"

Runa looked at him. Indeed she said that trainers who picked favourites were rotten, but so she had them anyway, and Steven was the champion, so she had to be honest. The dragon-hearted girl, she imagined herself … and wasn't she like a dragon, he once decided? (But Runa said, "No.")

"Good," Steven said, still touching the screen. "All right. I'm going to inform my friends in the society, as you put it, what you've told me. I'll mention you've found yourself a few short of a team, and ask whether they've any ideas for helping. No doubt you could fill out your team right here, but I suspect you'd rather find Pokémon from all different places. If I may suggest at least one Steel type … you can't go wrong with Steel …"

This was the power of humans, he thought (always coming back to this), to decide their own fate. Runa said it wasn't so, that many were roped into things which it was hardly possible to escape—people living roughly, and not as they'd dreamed—but now she and Steven only had to think and, making a few notes, a general idea as Steven said, they could plan in detail whole years in advance, where wild Pokémon saw only an indistinct future time, with even a week from now far off and hazy. They could go some place far away, Runa said, and start over: Sinnoh, Steven suggested, not remote, yet a day's travel on the back of a Dragonite. One of the champion Cynthia's Pokémon had recently produced an egg for whom she sought a trainer. They could travel between the cities, the routes, just for experience—no battles or gyms to worry them, just sparring; or they could fly on Gaia's back and go wherever they wanted. It would be so easy to decide with just a few others! Whatever Runa liked, he thought, seemed best, and Gaia would accept any decision; all then would be up to Runa, with her new sense of discipline—not to say she wouldn't give them liberty, but that she would play more the role of the parent and guide them—and with Gaia enforcing, wasn't it bound to be the best of all directions?

Steven looked up at Runa and said, "You'll want a few weeks to get ready and arrange things, I assume, maybe find one other Pokémon from the nurseries. Then maybe your first stop should be Indigo Plateau to meet Lance. He and Iris keep saying they'd love to meet you. I gather they want to drown you with advice for your dragons. You know they'll live for centuries, of course."

And out of nowhere, he thought, with no need at all to introduce itself, there was that: a time after Runa. They were not yet together for two years, and now Steven Stone reminded him that he'd see the day she was dead.

Runa held his tail a little closer and said, "I don't really think that far ahead. But we'd be honoured to meet them."

For they wondered if she would become a Dragon Master, Steven said, and if she meant to raise any more. "Not that you'll be lacking experience," he said, "with two Dragonite."

A Dragonite, he thought. (Runa looked at him.) Humans lived perhaps a hundred years, a Dragonite three times as long, and that was average. The others, Gaia, would think him crazy, but he was not so certain—and he had perhaps not much time left to decide it—he wasn't sure that he wanted to evolve. He could hardly say that to Gaia, of course; she only spoke of it every day, said he was overdue, that he might have evolved in the tournament if Runa only put him in again. But to lose one's body (and she would know better than him, of course, how different it had to feel) was hardly a small decision; and one need look no farther than himself to know that evolution did not fix everything. As a Dratini he looked to it as a way out, a device to weather his feelings, bring them under control, but he only turned out more sensitive, more abject than before. Gaia didn't seem affected by it, grew even calmer, more reserved, but natures varied, after all.

(Runa stood and said that they should talk to Gaia and Torus in the Pokémon dining hall, and he followed.)

Clair said that he had a different ability, some mutation drawn from a Walrein. It would explain why his skin never shed properly, why it never helped his condition in battle (neither did hers, Gaia said, but they already knew she had the scale). Such abilities always excluded another, a property of the energies which brought them about, allowed Pokémon to produce energy from nowhere. Suppose he evolved—would he gain the Inner Focus, or only become even thicker? become again incapable of flight, perhaps, a useless drag to Runa, grounding her. If he evolved he would never again hold her as he did, wrapping all the way around; but then he would have arms: he would be able to pick her up, like that, and carry her, let her rest from walking. Suppose he grew even more affected, throwing himself on Runa, unable to be pulled away even by Gaia? He didn't know; but, he thought, until he decided, without battles or sparring he presumably had time to think about it, maybe to speak with Gaia. Runa said it was everyone's purpose to grow, but that didn't have to mean evolution, if he didn't want it.

—Evolution can be part of growing, but only because it affects what really matters, which is how you think and feel. It's all right not to evolve—even Eevee, if they don't want it.

How did one prevent it happening? In the Cinnabar Gym, he did not even know what was happening until it was over. Even Gaia was taken by surprise, finished evolving both times before she could think otherwise. How it bothered her when she sprouted wings! She looked actually afraid of that flock of Delibird in the Ice Path, said it was because her wings were still tender, and she didn't want to lose the only pink left on her, as if a little ice would bleach them. But ice never touched him, she said, almost as if he cheated, this being before Clair's explanation.

(Gaia looked at him as Runa went to Torus, and Steven saw his Metagross who gave a stamp. Sitting by Gaia, Apollo held up a dish of melted cream and said, "[O Shadow! I saved some of Runa's for you!]")

Gaia had changed when she evolved, more than the first time, but their friendship was still the same: the benefit of a thousand conversations in a cage in Goldenrod, of two years' travel together, he thought, was that one went beyond surface opinions and started to see true nature—it being the only credit he gave himself that he still hid his love for Runa. Gaia, of course, would accept the plan, travel the routes and only train and raise Pokémon, for she did enjoy it, helping him, said many times it was nothing; still, he knew, eventually Gaia would want more. Even in the Corner she said she'd become the number-one Dragonite some day: it was a sign, she believed, that she evolved in Olivine the same day that Manda defeated Lance, the Dragon Master, his own Dragonite losing the first rank for it. He regained it, of course, a few months later—Iris's Dragonite was never consistent. And she would get to meet them, Lance and Iris, meet those famous Dragonite! They would be part of the society, the compact. That was how Runa should explain it to her, how he would, if she felt any doubt.

("[Don't eat the candies,]" Jeanmarie said. Oh? "[The pink ones.]" He would avoid them.)

And Gaia got on well with Apollo, he saw, sharing these long conversations whenever they met. Everyone had forgiven Manda's team—only their job, of course—all but Nero, perhaps, whom Dyna scowled at and hated, although Diana sat beside her. Apollo was always kind, even though he had to knock out Torus; felt that he had to be even kinder, perhaps, after that; and he would become the number-one Charizard if Red's hiatus lasted much longer, and then it would be as if Gaia had to do likewise, sitting beside him. What were he and Gaia talking about? Tactics, perhaps. She would soak up every secret and become a great champion, the very top, and teach the whole team, and then Tanwen would be sorry. But had Gaia ever simply told Runa, he wondered, had Torus translate for her (and where was Torus?) that this was her dream? Runa seemed hesitant to ask, rarely asked any of them what their dreams actually were, for possibly (so perhaps best explained it, fit her philosophy and not, as Tanwen once said in a wretched fit, only became her excuse in case she couldn't help them), possibly she considered it part of her duty as a trainer to be able to read such essential things herself; predict their wants and behaviour; understand them as well or better than a psychic, and so determine, as she would need to once Torus was away, what it was that they wanted all on her own.

(He took a little chocolate ball from the dish and ate it—some sort of bitter fudge. He left the table.)

Well, she wasn't psychic, he thought, but there wasn't another human in the world who understood Pokémon better, certainly, not even among the champions—so wasn't it only fitting if the champions approached her? For that wasn't only his impression of Runa's powers: even Lance said that she had unparallelled quality. From Dratini to Dragonite in seventeen months, the press said, was unprecedented, even Clair would admit—Runa and Gaia being, rightfully, the two stars. That was what Tanwen could never accept. If only, he thought, Tanwen had heard Runa's worries that night! But it was better that she left, in the end.

(The doors opened: Manda came in from the other dining hall, where it seemed dinner had ended, and went to Steven Stone. He drank from the bowl of juice, to clear the taste.)

Strange it was, he thought, to only suck juice through a straw and there, two champions passed! Years of exposure to such environment hadn't spoilt Runa a bit, only rather amplified her drive to improve herself, to cultivate her qualities—her intelligence, her inexhaustible warmth (so she looked now, smiled at him), the most absurdly affecting sweet hair—only made her further stand out amongst what, by human standards, were the only things people noticed: wealth; a famous family who, though they disagreed, let her at least enough freedom to go travelling; the _cr__ème de la crème_, as Rita said, of friends and company, champions and compacts that directed the world. Suppose she weren't born a Pondelore and wanted to found her school: it would take years of effort to build support, the champions being slower to notice her, even Steven saying how her family affected his thinking, and then just a little dojo, perhaps, the sort some few dozen regularly attended, perhaps years gone by before she got real attention, simply for lack of money and influence. —We're very lucky, Runa always said, not to have to worry. Being Runa Pondelore, sister of the champion, all this attention came by automatically: her failures were exaggerated, yes (all talking heads on a show), but then her successes would stretch that much wider across the world. Runa had every quality; but she was lucky, very lucky on top.

(The Blissey Maria burst in flushing. "[O, great apologies!]" she said, bowing low. "[We shall remove these offensive candies at once! Thank Jeanmarie for informing us, and preserving these young Pokémon. Please accept these most supreme Poké Puffs and let this be a small memory.]" And Maria and a human servant went to the tables and began collecting dishes.)

And he was lucky too, he knew. It didn't always seem so, as he looked at his reflection, or an empty dish, or the grass, perhaps, as Runa rubbed his back and it took everything not to break into a sweat; but that was to forget, to get used to one's fortunes and fail to measure rightly. He had his flaws of birth and nature, and (Torus would deny it) his due shame … but he met Runa. At once any bad luck was forgotten: every scale tipped in his favour, accounting for her: mounds of rock and filth lifted up out of sight, as if occupying the lowest rung of paradise. The Metagross stamped—so the gates closed and saved him. Really half of what bothered him was nothing—some bad habit or neurosis, a thing producing physical effects (so he felt it now, just to see Runa laugh, his stomach turning over again). If he watched for too long he would feel as if spinning, and it was dangerous to lose his senses (he nearly touched her in the study; it was more serious than he pretended, had to find new Pokémon to occupy her at once) when any moment she may turn and—oh!—look at him, smile, seeing that he looked.

("[Are you feeling all right?]" Gaia said, putting her hand on him. Of course, he said, just dizzy for a second.)

But she kept holding him; she looked for Apollo. Perhaps he lost his balance for a moment, watching her, but he was perfectly fine, a bit of indigestion was all. And Gaia was always very sweet to him (so he told her), to which she said he looked very pale, to which he said, Just a bad candy, to please her. Then she began to wave her arms, called for Apollo, Maria. Nothing was the matter, he said; and Apollo was wonderfully strong (so he told him), but he needn't lay out, was perfectly balanced, in fact, with both of them holding. And Runa was looking—but she was worried, he saw. He had done something, perhaps, he ought not.

Maria appeared and stared and quivered. "[No!]" she said. "[You shan't! _A— Arr__êtez_!]" But what did he do? And now there was a great commotion of dishes, and someone asked after the bowl of chocolate fudge. But they didn't want that, he said: it was bad. And there was Rita, come along at last, and she looked down at him and said, O. She hadn't expected a show, she said. But that was a rotten thing to say, he thought, just because he was suddenly ill.

[You are not ill.] That was Torus, he thought. [It will pass in a moment.] Was it Torus? But Torus, he knew, knew everything.

But he really felt that he was growing ill: the white specks were back.


	17. Level 60 - Route 210 (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Part III**

* * *

**Level 60**

She was being rotten again, he thought. She'd been rotten for months.

Why did Gaia do it so often lately, always trying to get a reaction? They only stopped to buy some milk in a little café outside Route 210, and then as Runa took a call from Cynthia, seeing the sign above the counter—Solaceon Town Day Care: Where Pokémon's Dreams Come True!—Gaia could not resist: she looked at him and he saw her grin. Not that she grew mischievous, either; she was never more responsible than now, never so helpful to Runa, and without her, he thought, Hestia might have turned out to be just another Tanwen; but all the same, why did she have to jab him, and remind everyone that, compared to her, he was like a comic sidekick to Runa, hardly fit to carry eggs? But he would appear unaffected, he thought, and say nothing; so he sat on the floor and drank his jug of milk as they listened.

"[It wasn't the first time he used his wings,]" Gaia said, putting her hand on him, "[but it was certainly his best performance to date. He'd been practising all day when we went to the nursery, not the one where we got Hestia but one we saw earlier. Runa was at the counter with me, and he went off to sit beside a nice pool in the corner, tucked away behind a ridge. And that, it turned out, was the favourite haunt of a certain lady Lapras.]"

Of course she pretended that it was all a joke now, he thought, when she'd nearly thrown Thunder at the time. Hestia pretended not to smile, but drank her water, waited to see their response to the story. The other two wouldn't spot such innuendo, of course, but the Charmeleon was always very mature for her age, and by far the cleverest—really not far short of Torus.

Ken, of course, had his own kind of thinking. The little Monferno slapped his hands on the table and said, "[Did he knock out? What happened? Did they fight?]"

"[I didn't see,]" Gaia said, sipping her milk, "[but from what Shadow's told me, I suspect more happened than he'll admit.]"

"[What happened—!]" Ken said, and now he was halfway up the table, as if he'd sooner hear by being closer, and Hestia pulled him back by the tail.

"[Why don't you tell them, Shadow?]" Gaia said, and thumped his shoulder.

He drank his milk with what appeared, he hoped, to be a nonplussed deliberation. "[I was dumb,]" he said, "[The end. Y— You don't have to make it clear.]"

And Gaia snorted and said, "[This was a nursery for the Monster egg-group, you see, and this Lapras was expecting a breeder at the time—not a Dragonite, but, as I gather, professional nursery Pokémon learn how to get friendly fast. She started asking where he was from, how long he'd been there, and he, who has no idea why she's asking, tells her about Runa, and how she was looking to get a new Pokémon. And here he was, looking nervous, come to sit in her corner. So she put two and two together and got a little over four. But can you blame her? You had so much in common! She couldn't have been an inch taller than you. I bet your eggs would have been beautiful.]"

Émilie touched her face and gave a cry—turning out just like a regular fairy, he thought, swooning at the thought of close encounters, thinking nothing of a dragon's fright. But the little Togetic meant nothing by it; she was sweet, and he was rotten for even doubting her. No, what only irritated him was that Gaia pretended it amused her, now, when the only reason she even saw the Lapras was because she flew off at once to abuse her, to make clear that he wasn't for breeding.

Hestia said, "[So did you make friendly? You never said.]"

There was something to be said, he thought, for keeping Charmander to little children who dressed them up. But now everyone was looking at him, Ken included, and Gaia was grinning again. And where was Runa? Still on her call by the counter, he saw. So he said, "[I— I politely refused.]"

"[Yeah, after she already tried to make friendly herself,]" Gaia said, leaning against him. She only wanted a reaction, he knew, to make him flustered—she wouldn't get the satisfaction. He drank the rest of his jug in one gulp, left it on the table, looked at it. He might say that it frightened Runa, the way she saw him panicked, and in an instant Gaia would scowl and leave it, but that was too far—she'd be back to normal in a minute.

Gaia said, "[Next thing we knew he came tearing over the ridge, actually taking flight at the top. He managed to make it right across the nursery grounds without flapping, before he crash-landed in the dirt in front of us.]"

"[Rotten waters!]" Ken said, slamming his bottle so that drops of milk spattered on the table. "[You beat her, right? Did you make her faint?]"

Hestia took the bottle away from him and said, "[You ever seen a Lapras run? And it wasn't a battle, you drip. She thought he was there to make an egg.]" And Ken said, Oh, as if he understood; but anyone could see that he didn't follow, and Hestia returned his bottle.

On the table, nested in the cloth and bag, the egg moved, and everyone watched for a minute. Ken made out to poke it and Hestia pulled his tail. Gaia was the first to pick up her drink again and look away. To train others, she said, was quite enjoyable; but to raise eggs, to take part in all that character building, as it were, didn't interest her. —You're more maternal than me, she said; you and Runa handle it. (For Gaia was centre of the team, yes, and never more useful to Runa … but there was no denying that, since the old team had split, something had gotten between them. Gaia treated Runa, he felt, more like a trainer than any time since the Corner: loyally following every order, but by obligation, it seemed, rather than choice—as if in different circumstances she would rather be apart. But that was reading too far, perhaps, and wrongly.) So ask her to execute a Draco Meteor, and she could do it on the spot; but put an egg in her hand and she seemed afraid she would drop it, or that at any moment it may crack and imprint on her, some little mon wanting love and affection. It didn't help that Steven only told them it was a Steel type—not even Runa knew what it was, only that it came from the Medivicis in Unova. —But that's fair, don't you think? Runa had said. No parent knew in advance the nature of their offspring, yet to love was expected just the same. That was the real proof of it, if they loved unconditionally, which proved parents were fit for their business.

"[Maybe it's a Dratini!]" Émilie said.

Or a Beldum, he thought—that was Steven's favourite, and a psychic, too, to replace Torus. But there was Runa, he saw, finally returning, finished her call.

"Don't tell the Lapras story, Gaia," she said, taking the empty bottles. "It wasn't funny."

Gaia rolled her eyes and finished her milk.

* * *

Runa said they would reach Celestic Town just before the solstice, if they left early the next morning.

Not that one could tell, now, with fog obscuring more than a mile's distance, but in certain valleys, where the mountains were not so high, he could look and nearly think that Sinnoh was a part of Johto, some expanse perhaps north of the same mountains, the cities being a little less sprawling, a little more modern in construction, except where some places rebuilt themselves—but from above, of course, it was nothing similar, and he felt no more connection. It was nice, only following the routes and enjoying company, not flying back and forth with no time to see things; not that cities weren't more interesting, or that it wasn't a more important business for Runa, meeting champions, but lacking that, he felt, and it was like Johto again, the first few months on the routes, what he remembered as a Dratini. It was moving too quickly, they knew, which bust up the team—that and Runa not impressing more on Tanwen's character. Just to walk, he thought, and raise them was the thing, which in a few more months, when the weather grew colder, and the passes through Mount Coronet filled with ice, would turn to training in dojos, and the warm houses of friends, like Cynthia, and drinking hot tea together—a team, and a family, as Runa wanted.

Only five—or was longer?—just about six months since leaving Hoenn, but just a few now on the routes, and how far things had changed! Ken and Hestia and Émilie all grew enormously; it was nothing whatever like before, a new kind of thinking. True, when Hestia snorted or argued a point, used her intelligence to speak around something and get her way, he did see a bit of Tanwen; but Tan wasn't persuaded like Hestia could be with a properly formed conclusion, and at any rate Ken and Émilie were nothing like Rita, or Dyna, though Dyna would like to meet Ken, he knew, and perhaps would one day, if Runa ever said they would visit.

And Runa! he thought. (Every time he thought about it he found his claw between his teeth.) If after the Silver Conference anyone doubted her, wanted her to give up her dreams for Pokémon, she'd shut them up and for good, by now, with the example she presented. In Johto, she tried to keep everything open, tried to cover every option, and accept whatever might change in their directions, even for the worse if it was only what they wanted; but now she guided each of them, and built them curricula, and spent twice the effort, it seemed, in doing everything for them. In the mornings she gave lessons in mathematics and reading and logic, things she said would improve their character; in the afternoons, as they trained, she made their meals and caught up on other business, spoke to the champions; in the evenings, she read aloud to them, maybe stories, maybe fables with a kind of moral question; and then, sometimes late into the evenings, when all the others had gone to sleep but he saw her light still moving, when she ought to have been most exhausted and wanting nothing but rest she would read the most difficult books on education and philosophy, and ethics, anything which might provide the slightest help in improving her Pokémon's characters. It wasn't right, he said, telling Gaia. But he was being neurotic, she said: she was just trying to multitask and be like Torus, which was bound, she said, to make Runa stressed, and lead to bad decisions. So they had to cover for her, and be not afraid to think independently, by which she meant, he thought, not to be afraid to think less of Runa.

But that wasn't true, he thought, watching Gaia rummage through her bag for something as they walked. Gaia didn't dislike Runa—she did not. There wasn't anything between them, only that Gaia didn't know, now, so well what her dream would be. To be the number-one Dragonite, now, was put aside, put out of mind as a thing for the future; so for now … ? Gaia wasn't certain. She might join in Runa's lessons each morning, he said, but Gaia snorted and used them to exercise, said the others wouldn't take her seriously as trainer if she took part in lessons beside them. But then she might do anything she wanted—anything, he wanted to say, that a human could do. They might pick up a pen and practise writing letters or kanji, study with Hestia or Ken (probably not Ken): then they could communicate with Runa, and help with planning, and have a bigger say if she wanted. They might say to her anything they imagined. But such things only made Gaia irritated, and quit speaking to him or to Runa.

Now Émilie hovered near. "[Do you want a peach?]" she said.

"[Oh,]" he said—one peach, she offered, but to her it was a whole meal. "[That's okay. Maybe Gaia? But thank you for offering, Émi.]" And Émilie smiled and said, You're welcome, and went to Gaia.

On the one hand it seemed as if Gaia grew distant—so she teased him, perhaps, as she felt upset that he still seemed reserved toward her, two Dragonite together since caged Dratini yet not holding hands every second, as friends ought to do. (The first thing he felt, once the candy evolved him, was Gaia seizing him, trying to pull him up from where he'd fallen, turned over eight hundred pounds in a second, not knowing his legs nor how to use them. Was it selfish of him, or only ridiculous, that he wished his first act was to hold Runa, to lift her up? She was on him the next second, anyway, and Apollo—but Gaia took first what he wanted for Runa, and wasn't that selfish of her?) But in truth—and Gaia knew it—they were closer than ever, as her teasing only proved in itself. She forgot that he knew her as well as she thought she knew him, that behind every act was some cause or other, and her cause she'd already admitted. How many times in Johto had she imagined it, becoming a great team together? It was to be her and him, she said, two Dragonite all the way to the championship, Tanwen and the rest only slight annoyances; so now that Tanwen and Dyna and Torus were gone, and it really was just the two, why did Runa, she thought, have to hang it all up, and not at least battle as well as raise them? So Gaia fell out of the top thirty Dragonite, and patient as she was, it bothered her; so he told her, and she denied it, said that she didn't think twice about the rankings, but she forgot that he knew her.

They were beginning to pass below the fog-line, now, the next hour all downward, and far off down the valley they could see what could only be Wilma's house, in a bit of field. Runa said, "We'll be there before dark. It'll be nice to sleep inside tonight."

For travel lost its spark for Runa—not that she grew to dislike it, but it wasn't possible, after all, to run a school on the routes, and Runa's mind was on the future. Her plan was set, now: raise the team, help the champions fight off some threat if necessary (so it brewed; so they hinted), and then, if it all turned out right, with her parents' approval and support they'd settle, found her Academy, or dojo perhaps, get through some early difficult phases but soon begin to spread her philosophy of Pokémon, where Pokémon thought for themselves, and so usher in a new generation of training. Where would the Academy be? It was too early to say, but Goldenrod seemed most likely—or Castelia, where the Medivicis, good friends of the Pondelores, already had space to arrange it. But it was getting ahead of things, she said, to even imagine it, when if some villainous team was emerging the last thing to think about would be a new school. They'd be travelling Sinnoh for a while yet, and the other regions, and there was no notion just now to settle.

(Émilie offered food again to Gaia, a lemon this time, but Gaia didn't want it, rearranged her bag and Runa's harness. Then she turned to look at him, and he looked away, and Émilie went to Runa.)

Evolution was different the second time, he felt. (It was fair, he said, that she always rode on Gaia; it was easier, only to watch behind her.) In the first, everything had turned up, every sense excited; but a Dragonair was not much different than a Dratini. One was just the other but longer, more filled out with space and senses. To grow six limbs at once—that was more than simple appearances, affected too his thinking. Being more like a human, perhaps, he gained a greater faculty for understanding humans things. Qualities of Runa which seemed nearly magical seemed now more talent and nature—no less outstanding, of course, now only better understood her quality, having a better idea of how far behind others were. Dragonite, they said, were quite intelligent; and he was always clever, Gaia claimed, understood human things better than anyone, except, he answered, for Rita. As he said, that wasn't counting his time in the Corner, watching the screen all day: not intelligence, but knowledge, points of reference to aid understanding. Gaia said that that was two and a half years ago, that the differences wore off; but she was only looking out for him, always overstating his—

"[What do you call a mon who walks everywhere?]" Ken said, jumping up his back—he hadn't spoken to him in fifteen minutes, and he was overdue. "[I mean, there's fliers. But what a walker called?]"

He smiled, and said, "[Why not a walker?]"

"['Cause that's dumb!]" Ken said. "[What if they run, too?]"

Rita would have had a fine time with Ken, he thought, making him believe almost anything—nothing whatever like her or Tanwen, if Runa had cause to doubt her Fire types. (And why another fire? Gaia had said, once he'd hatched from Cynthia's egg. But why two dragons? Hestia said.) If Ken was not crawling onto people, needy and persistent as he was, he was running back and forth along the path as if to scout it. —Why walk? he said. Running's faster! For quite as if he were born for Runa, and represented what in future would be normal, it was his automatic belief that nothing was impossible which only opinion declared so, so that if one only believed it enough, they could do anything they wanted.

—Are you sure it won't hurt? I thought a Mach Punch really hurts!

—I'll be okay. Go ahead.

—Hessie said it's not effective 'gainst fliers but I knocked out that Starly with one! Are you sure it won't hurt?

—Really … I won't feel a thing.

It had hurt, somewhat, even though he'd just evolved a few weeks prior, even though he was scrawny for a Monferno; but not yet being aware of his flaws, and having the fortitude (the stupidity, Hestia said) to pick himself up when he erred and try again, he so far continued to prove his thinking, that nothing was really impossible. Which Hestia, he thought, needed no proof to do, as it only took an hour's talking to her to have anyone believing what she wanted: a real intelligence, she had, not an appearance born of gorging on documentaries. When Runa began her morning lessons, she imagined all three of them working together; but Hestia so quickly moved ahead, and the other two drifted in their own directions, that now she was one-on-one tutor to three different mon, as it had been, only had to set Hestia's growing exercises, which if she finished them in time and she wasn't watched closely she put aside to set upon Ken's beside her; which at times, he felt, was the only thing that made the little Monferno learn anything at all.

—This should be easy for you, with twenty fingers.

—It's not counting fingers, though! And how's a number a square?

—Count again. Five sixes is what, you said?

—Five, uh … Thirty.

—So six sixes is?

—… Thirty six?

—That's right. Except for me, it's a hundred.

Torus said that battling was just an act, a play which novice trainers and Pokémon only assumed to be real, which mindset most never got out of—Hestia understood. Even in their few spars with other people, she'd produce a flourish where a simple rush sufficed, for no reason, she said, but that she wanted to try some theatricality. Perhaps the Hoenn estate bred for such things; which was only incidental, a little Charmander whose actual quality no one would notice but Runa, for as she said,

—She was nine points short of perfect,

which with her family explained everything: too overqualified to want to release, but too short of perfect for breeding. So Runa's judgement bore out again, and Hestia grew to match Runa's thinking, even if she wasn't born with them like Ken and Émilie. And the little Togetic, he thought … really it was absurd, such fears of fairies, as if they were any different in thinking! No doubt she came from a line of perfect champions, Kalos thoroughbreds, given as she was by Diantha herself, for her nature was very sweet, never once snapped at anything but always was calm, always hovering and swooning at every little thing. That Togetic detected kindness in others was well documented, and that she spent most time with Runa said everything. But she had the potential, Hestia said, for darker thinking—something she overheard in Hoenn about practices in other regions, how they laid all sorts of unnatural dispositions on a Pokémon through convoluted breeding. (But one only had to look at Émilie to know such talk was nonsense, wasn't it?) She might learn, Diantha said, the Baton Pass, and help her friends; but for now she felt she wasn't ready to evolve again, as she might with just a stone, but trained with Gaia, slept by Runa as she read, and was kindly to every one of them, so that even Gaia didn't complain any more when they woke up in fairy powder, if she occupied part of Runa.

That Runa would have less time for them, they both granted—these the most critical months for young Pokémon, after all. (Still she sometimes sat beside him; still she sometimes held his hand.) He and Gaia didn't grow so quickly, now, as in Johto, without the battling, but, he thought, as Ken ran up on Gaia's back again, wasn't that fair? They both had had their other life with Runa, and now they got another, and so on forever. Runa might raise many more Pokémon, in future, but so far as they would all imagine (not too many more, not so many Runa couldn't love them), he and Gaia were born with Runa, both Dragonite from the start. Gone was the jealous look of Tanwen, as if he stole from her by being near, or the doubt of Dyna or even Gaia. She told the Lapras story because she knew it couldn't bother him. Everything, he said, was all right.

"How hungry is everyone?" Runa said. The sun had not yet set, but they would go to bed early, she said, just one story, to be sure they reached Celestic in time. "We should make something nice for Wilma, for when she's back."

And they mustn't disturb her things, she said, Wilma having been so kind when they met, teaching Gaia that ability with the meteor (he knew he would fail it, never had Gaia's knack), and now offering her house for a night's rest while she was out, preparing for the summer solstice festival with Cynthia. Runa fetched the hidden key from the pot. The house was small, but the main room was large enough that he and Gaia could lie out. Gaia turned sideways for the door, barely touched the frame—pulled him through after, crouching and squeezing, trying not to wreck the wood, and the door squeaked as she shut it after. (He could not slip out later that way; but there was a garden-side door, he saw now, which looked large enough.)

Émilie began to play with some drooping flowers, would use some dust, he thought, to enervate them. Runa laid down her bag and said to choose what they each wanted for dinner, and then she'd cook the things that needed cooking.

Runa had changed since that night in Hoenn, he thought. She became more reserved—not that her warmth had gone at all, and still far exceeding any other trainer, certainly, but it was not the same, not as open as before he evolved. Something had happened that night on the estate, when Steven interrupted, which neither could possibly discuss … Perhaps she did see something? For she kept a greater distance, hardly held his arm more than Gaia's, who cared nothing for holding hands. Perhaps it was him: as a Dragonair, when she looked at him, he couldn't help but give a reaction, a trill, a raised feather which gave away he noticed her attention, and she smiled; but now, with his higher gravity, now with arms and legs to compound his posture, to busy and hold around him and making no purchase to grab him, now by being eight-foot-one and standing so high that, even bent over, her hair hardly reached the third striation in his neck, in direct proportion, he felt, she became more distant, for she had no easy way to show her affection. Every glance or touch having been her way of saying that she was present, that she thought of him (still her favourite, he thought), however many others there were who talked over him, now she kept some greater distance, and trusted his maturity not to feel like a Dratini without his blanket. And as his feelings diminished not one iota, that though perhaps he had a calmer expression he remained quite as affected by her, perhaps even raised to a new peak, tempered only by a more laggardly constitution, it was not the case, he thought, that all was well. Rather he began to feel a sort of vertigo, a growing conviction that this was the point when things began to turn away again, some irreversible tectonic motion, against which, seeing her begin to drift apart from him, the tethers between them would stretch farther and farther, and eventually would start to tear.

Evolution was different the second time, he said, opening his bag with the rice cooker. Dragonair were just Dratini stretched a little larger; now the structure of his brain expanded, and his understanding itself became clearer. He straightened it out, as perhaps would Runa, writing it in her journal:

The Dratini: curious, carried away by fleeting thoughts and environment.

The Dragonair: sensuous, a slave to wants and passions.

The Dragonite: focused, fixed in character for all the centuries.

He had no illusions remaining that she could possibly love him: the question was reconciliation, how to mesh his condition with hers, to be sure they never parted; to be for Runa only as she wanted, to act as was best to honour and keep her, and so never to fear of losing her.

For he was never more in love with Runa than now, he thought. As a Dratini, seeing her in the cage, the first few months even, that was not really love. He hardly knew Runa, then; the girl he saw was more idea than reality. As a Dragonair, only wanting to rub and hold—that was not love! It was not love. He abused her, imagined a Runa stripped of character, servile to his wants, just a set of arms and legs to wrap him. That, at least, had left him—not that the thought of Runa sleeping beside him wasn't a thrill, but it wasn't what most affected him any longer. Dragonite, they said, lived for three hundred years, and stuck loyal to things for life, for that was draconic nature, and for that long he would love Runa. That she could not love him, he felt, was bearable, absurd really to entertain, however many arms and legs he had, however similar Torus said they were in principle. That she may find out about him was not the true fear, any longer. If she found out and, understanding, only pitied, for she would not hate him, only let him stay and take her hand now and then, that was enough—he could live in such a condition. He would be no harm to her, and so he'd always be near. No, he thought—the real fear was that, once understanding him, she asked him to go. For if she saw that he loved her and that it would never end, that even to be around her, she'd imagine, was like a form of torture to him, whereas apart he might recover, find another love … she would not think twice about her own feelings, but only want what was best for him. And that, she would say, was to leave: to end whatever pain she put him through, by making him give her up. She would not let him waste his life beside her, when he might only leave and be happy. The trouble with that, of course, was that it would kill him, which she could not imagine, seeing him as just like herself. There was no forest or mountain cave which offered a defence from that, now that his dragon heartstring had evolved to pluck with her every movement—she would leave, send him away, and without her presence the thing would snap. So she had to know that he could live without her loving him, with whatever unrequited feeling, even if she considered it torture—only that under no conditions, in no possible world, could he bear to see her go.

But how to explain it, he thought, in the strongest way possible? That was what he worked at, every night once she was sleeping.


	18. Level 60 - Route 210 (Scenes 3-5)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

It was not dishonest, he thought, or disloyal. He would be gone for less than an hour. It was perfectly safe, with Gaia and Hestia in any case to keep an eye on Ken, and no risk at all of wilders when Wilma lived so long without incident, and the egg in Runa's arms if it decided to hatch. If they asked, he would say that he was only thirsty, and didn't want to run the tap, waking everyone, but went out to find a stream. Runa would understand his gestures, scratching his tongue, always very gifted at it—only not enough, was the trouble, for what he needed to say. That must be precise, or she'd reach the wrong conclusion. And in a way, wasn't it a good thing to wilfully leave for an hour? That proved he did not put pressure on her, but could be apart if he liked. He took his satchel and slowly opened the side doors; the others remained asleep behind him, and once a few paces away he took up to fly.

Just below the fog-line in the valley (Runa had looked over), there stood a hill with a single tree, the sort they used to sleep under, in darker weather, all around Tanwen's little firepit. A few times it rained so thoroughly that it came through the leaves, and those (they would call him ridiculous) were amongst the fondest nights of his life: all tucked into Runa's bag beside her with no one thinking differently. Did Runa remember those times, looking over? He would never fit inside her sleeping bag, now, not even a tent she could stand in. Even in summer, Sinnoh was cold sleeping out in the open, not like those months on the Golden Coast. Since he evolved, Runa hadn't once slept beside him, nor used him as a pillow, even though he grew softer. Perhaps that was respect, he thought, that as he'd grown up now, she thought it wasn't right to coddle him with hugs and touches. Or as she said,

—Ken, please give him some space! He doesn't like people grabbing him.

It seemed impossible that she didn't see something that night in Hoenn, when he nearly kissed her, surely turned pink right across his face; but she treated him as no less trustworthy, said all the same things, and showed no fright around him—only felt more distant, was all. But then sometimes, as he sat by a fire, she did come over, and handling her bag came to sit pressed against him; and then his pot of marshmallows would be black right over for distraction, and he would break into a sweat as if the fire affected him. She apologised, then, if she got too near; but there was always the suggestion, he felt (certainly in Gaia's look, but in Runa's too), that he ought not be flustered, ought not to flinch, when by any healthy standard he was absurd to feel nervous around her. For many fears felt weaker now—to battle, to be thought poorly by some other person—but to still be afraid of Runa! When he did come near her, when he felt it necessary to show that he thought no differently of her, and let his arm come close, she smiled, and held it beside her. He remained, if not her favourite, certainly very close; so it hurt, he knew, that he did not of his own will sit beside her, but kept away, even though she too kept a distance, for evolution changed him, she thought. Evolution, Torus said, was at once a compactification (he had to explain the word) and a growth of the mind, filling the space with more volume, in a way, giving it more power, but also more constraining it to repeated behaviour. Often times it made one harsher, more callous, as if in just those seconds they had to weather an enormous change, some effect of the Pokémon energies. So evolution had weathered him, like the walls of a canyon, given him an added strength through experience (except in the candy, which was empty energy) but at the cost of relief or recovery. What had been a wave, he felt, a want surging beyond control, at risk of drowning him entirely, had become like a monsoon pounding on his thick head, the water to his neck but climbing no higher, every contact with Runa like a momentary lull in its force, or a gust whipping in his face. But it was steady: he might have the strength to survive for months or years, his whole life; and if at any moment he fell into the water, it was easier to right himself than if a wave was pulling backwards. He might stand beside Runa for all her years, perhaps eighty or more, all the while covered and drummed by rain—but he had to think there was a better condition. He needn't make a rooftop or a warm shelter, but if he could at least quit the rain, quit the sensation that he might be drowning, that was worth the risk of wading out. It had to be possible to reach that safety, to explain everything to Runa. But how to do it?

He settled at the base of the tree, near the roots, and opened the satchel. A rational Pokémon, one fully connected to the truth of things, he thought, like Torus, would say that his plan was not impossible, in principle, but by any practical measure absurd (he took out the lamp)—never been done, they would say. But that wasn't true: many Pokémon learned to speak as humans did. He took out the pamphlets. True, they were all psychics—that or some bird Pokémon who only copied sounds, didn't connect the words—and Torus said psychics were farther from non-psychics than were humans and Pokémon generally. But if humans could speak like humans, and if humans were more similar to non-psychics than psychics who yet themselves could speak like humans, wasn't it possible that the middle case, the non-psychics, might speak like humans also, so long as they had the means for it? For he had a tongue, and lips and teeth, which not all Pokémon did: he could speak elements of the human word, _Dragonite_. No human was born with an ability to speak: every one of them had to learn. Wasn't it possible, then, for Pokémon also, if they were so close as Torus said?

So he settled, and looked through the pamphlets by the lamp: _A First Guide to Sinnoh_, it said. It was all in simple language, and had words enough to try, in both languages, with notes on pronunciation for the visiting tourist. He would try again; he would practice for an hour, or two, before returning again to Runa.

There was a place, Iron Island, which looked simple enough to try. Eye-urn, he read.

"_R—raan_," he said. But how did one sound from outside? It was possible, he thought, that he produced entirely different sounds than seemed in his own hearing, and no human would recognise. Still, it could only be good to practise, and get a feel for the word. "_Ite-on_. _Ite—o-raan_."

When he first tried to speak like a human, he quickly understood how adept was the human tongue, able to reproduce nearly any sound one wanted, like a Chatot but better, a near-perfect dexterity. Yet for all a Dragonite's supposed intelligence, for all the subtlety one might pack into regular Pokémon speech, to another Pokémon, to humans a few basic sounds were all he seemed to manage, some _Dra_ and _Go_ and _Nite_, and variations between them, and a plethora of wretched snorts and cries. Well, wasn't that enough? Gaia said, as he mentioned something similar (couldn't tell her about his project, of course); she let on her mood easily enough, grumbling or barking to let Runa read her, or the intonations of the word. But if he could say a single human word clearly, if he could speak to Runa directly in her own tongue … ! What, in that case, wouldn't be possible? For it had never been done; he would become indispensable, always at Runa's side, her translator, her closest mon. And he could put into words and tell her directly his feelings, be absolutely certain she understood, and how then could she send him away? But first, he thought, it took the words.

There was an island near Sinnoh: Flower Paradise, it said, a reserve closed to most visitors. Pear-ah-dice—he would never reach it, he thought, however well it sounded in his mind. And where was the tongue to produce that hiss, and how did Runa make a pop like that?

He said, "_… Garra-nite_."

Hopeless, he thought—not even close. But as like a game of Voltorb Flip, he thought, perhaps clearing first a whole row made the rest easier. Suppose he worked out the letters fluently—that was dozens of words, by sound alone. Each had its own position of the tongue and lips; he had to practise each until they were second nature. The first, then. It wasn't guttural, that was clear (humans rarely spoke from the throat, that way), but not like the first in Dragonite, with the tongue forward. When Runa looked at him and said: Pokémon, her lips pursed for a moment, as they might if she kissed Émilie on the head, as he felt on his nose when he was smaller. But he should focus—Po-kay-mon, beginning on the lips, a popping sound.

He opened his mouth, and closed it. Again—and there was a little pop, but from wetness, he thought, or the sound? He would keep trying. But he must look crazy to any wilders who saw, to the others if they ever happened to see him, as if he were making bubbles with his mouth. Perhaps his tongue was too large to do it. Dyna said, when he evolved, that it looked like half a Watmel, that his mouth could fit one whole (and that he was Watmel-shaped generally; she still hated him, at the time), yet human tongues were small and precise. Might it be that whatever shapes one needed to make human words were impossible for a Dragonite, for every Pokémon but Chatot? Even humans took years to learn. Granted they were hardly capable of thinking then, unaware of how they did it, but perhaps that only showed it was easy, if you had the tongue, and as he did not … Or perhaps it was possible, but simply took years in any case. Might he get away with secretly practising for so long? Suppose he let Runa know, not the reason, of course, but that he wanted to learn—she would help, of course. She would know exactly how to teach; she would draw up diagrams of the mouth. He had only to ask, to show the book and intimate. But that would lead to hours with Runa as she guided him; inspected his mouth; held his face and, from a close distance, demonstrated how one spoke, how one produced the first letter in Po-kay-mon, all but taking his lips in her hands. No, he thought, he had to work it out—had to surprise Runa, to increase the effect. She would be so excited to hear him speak that she forgave anything he said, let his words affect her: she would never abandon, she'd say, the first talking Pokémon, just because he happened to love her—inspired after all by that love to speak. He would become central to her school; he would teach Pokémon, and help the world to believe in her. All it took was a pop: just a little harder on the lips, and he—

"[Can't sleep?]"

Oh! he thought, falling over. Did Gaia see him leave? He covered the papers—but of course, she saw.

Gaia only looked at him; looked, he thought, as though she hid her real view, that he was mad, that she knew it would hurt his feelings to say it, but so she thought. And he was—how ridiculous it seemed now! to leave the others and waste what ought to be good rest, what ought to make him more helpful to Runa, but instead sat under a tree and tried to pop. She had a perfect right, he felt, to slap him; and he'd apologise if she did, only fly back to Runa; and perhaps she knew, that by rights he had to do whatever she wanted now, for she sat beside him.

"[I couldn't sleep either,]" she said.

"[O— Oh!]" he said. "[I was— I'm sorry.]"

"[Would you turn off the lamp?]" she said.

He turned off the lamp. She was upset with him leaving her to watch the others, as he fiddled about with such rot; but she only took his arm and sat, looking at the sky. Gaia was always so still, so relaxed: she could sit for hours only looking and thinking. As long as she liked it, he thought, he would sit. But if he apologised, would she forgive him, and let him go?

She said, "[It's a lovely night.]"

He said, "[Oh … lovely.]" He hadn't noticed, but a hole had formed in the fog, and some stars showed up now that the lamp was off. They were difficult to see in the cities, but the cities had better things to look at. He began to put away the papers with his free arm. Perhaps if he was suddenly tired, gave an enormous yawn or such, she might forget it—let him go and pretend she never saw anything.

She said, "[We should reach Celestic Town tomorrow. Maybe the egg will hatch there.]"

He said, "[Maybe.]"

What did she want to get out of him, if she wouldn't ask why he was reading? She looked at him; and sighing, as if the lovely night affected her, and she might fall sleep right there, she leaned against him and pulled his arm around her. She wouldn't stay for long, he thought—never did, in a spot like this, when she relaxed entirely (she did not perhaps see the papers), when away from the others she could let her guard down, and cease to be the instructor—but now and then, she liked to just sit with him: the two Dratini, she imagined, grown up together.

She said, "[Are you looking forward to another one in the team?]"

He said, "[Oh! Of course.]"

Another Pokémon would take more of Runa's time; but he could hardly hold it against a newborn—rather envied them, whose only memory would be with Runa. To think they were partners to Runa in raising them! like parents, he once told Gaia, and she frowned. Three Pokémon, soon a fourth, would grow up knowing only Runa's method as living.

Gaia said, "[Even if it takes away Runa's time?]"

He looked away. Why did she have to follow such questioning? he thought. Every other week she mentioned how Runa no longer trained them, how by the old team's standard they grew at a fraction of the pace; but Gaia did not even think about battling, she said, was happy to wait years before they tried a tournament, so what did that matter? Runa would give her time to the others until they grew up, and better understood what they wanted, and so they both ought to stand by her, and accept what Runa wanted.

"[If it makes her happy,]" he said.

Gaia said nothing, and they sat a while. He looked up at the sky. There was the constellation Draco, derived from the ancient word for Dragonair, snaking between the Ursaring Major and Minor. Forget that he interrupted his reading, he thought (all ridiculous, it now seemed): it was nice that Gaia only cared enough for him, this timid, torpid dragon in every way her inferior, to join him in the mountain air and sit. For if it were a choice, he felt, between him and any other Dratini in the world, not knowing him beforehand she would have picked nearly any other, judging him by his manner; they were only brought together by other forces, an accidental friendship. In a way he could thank humans that he knew her, that prize catcher in the caves. Or might they have met? She, they guessed, came from the rivers flowing into the Lake of Rage, possibly the lake itself (she remembered even less than him), and he, Clair said, was born in the underground tunnels connecting the Ice Path and Dragon's Den, and those were not so far apart. And Dratini were not native to that part of Johto: something had planted them there, and recently. The Silver Town Pokémon Reserve was established as a new home for those displaced by the Magnet Line extension, spreading west towards Hoenn region; and that included a little branch towards Cianwood City over the water, passing through its Pokémon Reserve, which was about the only place in Johto you might have found a Dratini, apart from some stores in Goldenrod. So the Magnet Line extension itself was responsible for Dratini ending up near Silver Town; and how difficult was it for some evolved mon to breach new caverns by Earthquake? But the Magnet Line extension was almost totally a project of the Pondelores—and how neatly, he thought, it all fit together! For it was really Runa's family that caused him and Gaia to meet, just as they were responsible for Runa's leaving to travel. They were all bound together irrevocably, in a way that no argument or differences could harm. They had an understanding; a solidarity; they were bound together since that day in Game Corner, and nothing would get between them and Runa. The papers called her a dragon trainer, become the principal adjective, and the photograph was of her and Cynthia standing between him and Gaia. It seemed impossible, he thought, Runa would ever abandon him; and yet if she did, said it would be better, as she thought it caused him pain to stay, Gaia would step in. For she said many times she was thankful for him—another Dratini and so on. She said, on the estate, outside Runa's door—what was it?

—I'll never leave Runa! he said.

—Then I won't either. You need me as much as her.

The champions had their compact, and so did they, which they simply never spoke about, but both always felt: to always be beside each other, sticking together for all time. Gaia held his arm close, and he knew, that given choice of any companion in the world, she'd choose to sit beside him, and him even before Runa. It was to be the three of them, together, until the end.

"[Are you in love with Runa?]" Gaia said.

Now it was possible, he always believed, for a very confident individual, for Runa, to negotiate any sudden surprise without a show of difficulty, if they only kept their wits about them—and that, he felt, was real quality, what could only be called a strong character. So was it any surprise, he thought, that he felt it slip away, as surely as a platform for the Magnet Train built speed and in seconds was out of sight behind him? He was only built to flinch, to falter, even when he had fair warning—and Gaia knew it, could ask him any question and, by his reaction, know his true feeling without a word. The thing was to avoid the question altogether.

So he thought he managed—so it all stacked up and depended on, that no one should ever, ever suspect him, or it would all come tumbling down at a stroke. Her head was lying on his side: she could hear his heart, even through his thickness, feel the sweat on his skin: the whole thing was a ruse to expose him, for she suspected, and now she knew. He lifted his arm—but what? There was nothing to hide in, now; Gaia opened him up and stuck her head inside, only waiting for the moment.

He said, "[I … I, I love being with her.]"

Gaia didn't move—her grip was getting tighter. She would thrash him: she knew everything, felt everything inside him. Already he was dripping sweat, and she didn't move.

She said, "[But not with me.]"

He tried to laugh, something horribly fake—nothing to hide in, now! If he were cleverer he might have done it, but he was not. "[Wh— Why would you say that?]" he said. (She would thrash him.) "[I, I love being with you! W-w-we're wonderfully close!]"

Did she mean that by loving Runa he had to leave, that their friendship was over? Was that how Gaia felt about it? he thought, for she knew—she knew!—that he loved Runa, and she still didn't look, only lay like a rock of ice on his side. But you can't, he ought to say: you mustn't. He put his arm around her; and if in a moment he burst into tears, buried his face in her and only gave up everything, let there be no secrets left, wouldn't she forgive him? Wouldn't she understand he was only wretched and weak, and never meant to hurt them by it?

Gaia looked at him; and in a single motion she grabbed his arm and drew level with him, and he went frozen entirely. She would punch him in the head, leave him faint on the hill as she flew back and carried the others away and saved them from him. But she only put her other hand on his neck.

"[How close?]" she said. She was hardly six inches from him, he saw.

"[P— Pretty close,]" he said.

"[Closer than Runa?]" she said.

Why did she ignore it, he thought, his all but confessing about Runa? Did it really matter nothing to her, so long as he was somehow even closer to her? Which was impossible, unless— Or did she mean, that is, when she said close—

She took hold of his face: her nose pressed into his. "[This close?]" she said.

But she couldn't possibly mean— It was Gaia, he thought. Gaia couldn't see him in that sort of category. They were virtually twins of a single egg, and just as wrongly—Gaia pressed forward, and he felt something touch his lip.

He pushed her away and fell onto his back, squashing his wings in the process. It wasn't possible, he thought—what was this, out of nowhere? After all these years she just suddenly decided? He clutched at the grass, wanted to crawl away; every sense inside him said it wasn't right, that it was a tear of natural boundaries—Gaia, he thought, and that!

Up past his feet she had turned around and folded her arms, saying something he could not quite hear. "[—for three years, Shadow,]" she said thickly. "[Even Dratini are old enough to breed.]"

Breeding! he thought. He tried to pull up but fell back again. But was it possible—not for all the time, surely—but did she mean that she loved him a long time? since even before he evolved? She turned, and he saw that her eyes were red, already beginning to water; and now, he thought, he understood: he and Gaia were more alike, he thought, than he ever imagined. How many times had he watched Runa, only wishing she turned and saw him?—and then, if she did, he turned away, afraid that she should notice! Suppose all the while, then, Gaia looked at him similarly, wanting his attention which never came. If anything blinded, he thought, it was love; so he hardly noticed her looks, her actions, only chalked it up to thoughtfulness. How many times had he failed to notice, as Gaia imagined sitting next to him, putting her arm around him, sleeping by his side? even to hold his face as she did, and kiss him on the lip—but could not, because, she saw, he didn't love her. And there had been signs, he realised, changes in her behaviour over time, each time they either evolved. Hadn't she been happy to be alone with him in the Dark Cave? Hadn't she gone back to find him in Saffron City? He took it as her excitement at the circumstances, happy to include him, but perhaps it was already that. Then add to that his reason for ignoring her, that he was in love with another, and that she was watching him, all the time … wasn't it perfectly obvious she found out? In all the times he looked at Runa, she'd never shown interest in another human—and glad he was for that, he thought, or he'd have died on the spot. But Gaia, watching him watch Runa, and slowly beginning to see …

Gaia was shaking, he saw, smothering a sob. She was too relaxed, was the cause of it: she let it happen, all roll on, only thinking, perhaps, if he couldn't love her, that that was how things turned out. (She was like him, until he was afraid of losing Runa.) Then finally she could bear it no longer, and it boiled up, and she had to make it clear: and now he answered, and crushed her under his fat foot. Always thinking of himself and his thinking, he never saw the effects of it, the minds he affected. Gaia tearing up; Gaia ruined, he saw.

She said, "[Torus said not everyone can make a connection, but I didn't listen. I thought if there was anyone you might, eventually …]" She sniffed; and now she turned and looked at him—wanted him hurt, he could see. "[You must notice she's not the same species as you! She'll never love you, you know. She's not—]"

Not sick like him, he knew she wanted, but only still cared enough not to say it. And why should she listen to Torus, whatever he told her? What were the chances that the one she loved was a part of some sliver, some blister detached from fair nature and unable ever to match her feelings? Torus said any love was possible in principle, not practice, but he did not take the hint: he only wanted to believe that closeness could engender feelings, that some day there'd be something with Runa; and Gaia, he thought, was just the same.

"[I just hoped,]" he said, "[just … maybe she was like me. I thought maybe, w-with her philosophy—]"

"[You thick rot,]" she said, sniffing. "[And when she finds out about you?]"

"[Then,]" he said—and now his nose was running—"[then I'd be happy just being near, and, and not being any closer.]"

"[How comfortable for you,]" Gaia said.

He really was a rot, he thought, all things weighed together. If he was any other dragon he'd have swooned under her years ago, fallen faint at her touches. Gaia least deserved it of anyone, and here he was utterly ruining her. And he would bring about the same in others yet; in Runa, repulsing her, breaking the team again. But Gaia was strong—she would recover. Just now she wanted to hit him, perhaps—if she had Dyna's character, or Tanwen's, she may have—but soon she'd feel better, and hiccup and laugh, go on to romance some great Dragonite, and realise that she only ever fancied him because they were forced into lifelong company. (But it wasn't over, he knew, and it changed things now; for just as, if being totally honest with himself, he never really wanted his love for Runa gone—in reasoning, perhaps, for how much easier it would make things, but in actuality the thought of Runa always seeming to intercede, the fear that if he ceased to love her there would be no point in anything, and a blank waste where his life had been—just as he never really wanted to lose it, so Gaia too would never let go, even when she saw it was hopeless.)

"[Look,]" he said, crawling up behind her—"[now you know. Now we both know, and, and there's no secrets. Won't you feel better?]"

He put his hand between her wings, and she moved as if to shake him. "[Just go away,]" she said. "[If you don't want me near then get lost. I should just go back to Johto.]"

"[Y— You don't mean that,]" he said, rubbing her back—Gaia, he thought, leaving the team! "[Y-you don't want to go. We're still friends, aren't we? You want us to stay friends at least. Even if you hate me now it'll hurt more if you leave.]"

"[What do you know?]" she said, turning on him. But she softened, close as he was, seeing his look; and she didn't move as he reached around and hugged her, pressed her side, as he thought she wanted to feel—like Runa pressing into him, even if only to say, I'm sorry.

"[Because even if Runa can't—]" he said, "[and, and asked me to go, I'd do it. I'd go. But the thing that'd really be killing me, then, is not having you to keep me going, not having you as … my life's companion.]" And it was not even really, he thought, a stretch; for leaving Runa he could imagine, but without Gaia to give him a scrap of meaning, a single tinder of support, it was as much as starving himself to death on some mountain.

Gaia sniffed; and saying at once, "[You big gump,]" she threw him back onto the roots of the tree and buried her face in his neck. And wasn't that only what he wanted each night with Runa? he thought—to throw his arms around her, to collapse, and let her use him as a pillow. She could have lain out entirely on him, as now Gaia did (her great fantasy, perhaps), and he'd stay up all night, just see that she didn't fall off him. If other Dragonite were at all like him, if Gaia felt even a fraction of what he did, she had to want this all the time: to bowl him over and clutch his neck, and press her skin against him. Well, he thought—let her have it, just a moment lying out under the stars of Draco.

* * *

—Don't be mad at Runa, he said.

She said that she was not, that it was hardly Runa's fault if he loved humans. (He thought about bringing up statistics and nature, but did not.) In the morning she was just the same—had looked at him, for a moment immediately after the thing, with her arms planted either side his head, in what had to be the peak of her heat experience, in what had to be her couch with Runa, as if she would take by force what he refused her, as if she would kiss him on the lip—but in the morning, as was just like Gaia, she was back again to normal, only picking up her bags and standing ready. They left and started on the route again, and nothing whatever was different: Ken bothered each in turn with questions; Hestia saw a Kecleon trying to track them, and did not say until she had left her dripping purple in her Toxic's poison, hardly feet from their bags, and Runa had to give the poor thing an antidote; Émilie kept listening for rustles in the nearby grass and warning Runa, pulling them away, wanting to avoid any conflict, until Gaia told her once again that it was up to wilders if they approached.

Runa took the egg to carry a while, and in a minute he took Gaia's arm. She looked at him, and smiled.

To think Gaia loved him! he thought—that she, who either was or would be the greatest Dragonite in the world, felt that way about him, a gormless fool. Any other dragon would have fallen for her years ago; probably all three Dratini in the Corner felt something, all vied for her attention, and hated him because he got it without even trying. Was that the reason? he thought, for even then she liked him (perhaps just because he wasn't interested), and was genuinely happy that he came away with Runa. Of course she didn't love him then; but the signs, the way she touched him as a Dragonair (felt just the same as him, perhaps, constantly wanting to lie and wrap) were in retrospect so obvious that she had to wonder why he didn't respond, what was wrong with her as a Pokémon.

His heart, he felt, had grown in pieces: cracked from the start, each portion took root and spread its influence, until every part of him beat and filled with conflicting forces. Fresh experience, a moment with Runa, filtered through like nutrient water; but lacking any reservoir, a sound base, it only ran through and temporarily excited the hearts, every root tearing for extra presence, overall a pain and harm when it was done, like so many roots of a Leech Seed. Was it healthier to stay away, then, and only abstain from Runa? It seemed to help very little; the hearts shrieked and bit each other. But Gaia's heart, if it were injured, was cut cleanly and only partway through, but slashed again and again by his ignorance, so that the halves, though connected, were not coordinated, and found themselves out of balance. As it was him responsible, then, as he had caused its scarring over, didn't he have a duty, if he cared at all for Gaia, to help her, to mend the heart? let it catch onto something else? Without his careless injury, water would pool in the middle, and begin to help it recover: it would seal up again with a drop inside, suffusing the heart with some new love, perhaps. She would never catch another until she was mostly healed up from his break. So he held her hand: he would try to stand closer: so she smiled. For she forgave him, he knew, and they were still friends; which was not to say that she was already getting over him, or would in any short period: Dragonite fixed onto things for years and centuries. If it had gone on any longer, she might not have been able to help it, would have found herself incurable, as had happened with him; but Gaia was only so relaxed, so capable of facing what needed it (knew there had to be a resolution with him at last, and was not afraid to simply say it), that in a few months or less she'd recover completely.

Now Gaia knew all about him, he thought. The little broken hearts and roots were dug up, and she saw right through his centre. She understood, then, why he avoided Runa's touch, why he held onto things she discarded, some old papers, a bit of torn cloth he fetched from a bin, and hence why he didn't want Runa opening his bag: all sustenance for the Leech Seed inside him. But still Gaia was fond of him—still she loved, for nothing changed in a day—and held his hand. For she had answered, when he said,

—Don't tell the others, please! Only Torus knows. If Runa found out I'd die.

And he told her the obvious truth, that Runa would only want him gone, that as she couldn't love him she would want him happy, and not in pain beside her, and so send him away to make a new life, and then he'd certainly die. Gaia doubted it, said that he only feared the worst and Runa would never abandon him, but she didn't understand like he did. She mustn't tell, he said, under any circumstances.

—I won't tell. Unless you want help telling her, some day. Even a gump like you doesn't deserve to be miserable.

"[She'll find out eventually,]" she said.

Didn't he know that already? he thought. Gaia looked at Runa more often, now, as they walked. That was her response: to look, to subdue her emotions, and accept whatever change. Whereas he, had he loved Gaia, and confessed his love and tried to kiss her only to learn that she was in love with their male trainer, would still be catatonic under that tree, poked at by Ken as everyone worried and Gaia stood chewing her claws off. She had the same quality he saw in Runa, that night on the estate, where from grief she evolved in just a few minutes to a state of high maturity; and where in Runa such a strength was wonderfully attractive, enough to start him melting, in Gaia he felt nothing but warm respect. Gaia could break the earth open and shoot water into the skies, throw a raincloud over an entire parched valley, and save lives, and he would clasp his hands in awe; but Runa only had to loop a strand of hair around her ear, adjust her glasses and look at him, and he would melt to pieces in front of her, if only she'd stroke him while reading.

* * *

They arrived in Celestic Town as the sun was setting, and all the lamplights were turning up.

"Cynthia's family live on the north ridge," Runa said. "Are you looking forward to meeting her again, Ken?"

"_Monfern_!" Ken said. Of course they had not really met: Ken was an egg of Cynthia's at the time, just as Steven Stone handed over the Medivicis' egg they now carried. It had moved three times since they arrived in the city, swaddled in its little cloth. She would put it on the table as they ate dinner with Cynthia and her family, and perhaps as they talked—

Oh? But for a moment, he thought, he had stepped on something, a stick that made a crack—but again, and he saw it: the egg was hatching, right in his hands! But what was he supposed to do? He fell to his tail, holding it; Runa saw and understood, running over, calling the others to see.

It had been his fear, a short while after evolving, as Runa talked of nothing but the future, as she took his hands and Gaia's and held them tightly and said they became the new family, that he might prove a horrid guardian, only ever thinking of himself and Runa, resenting those others who took time. That ended the instant he saw an egg crack; for how could he, when he saw the fragments of a shell move, pressed weakly by something inside it, how could he feel as if it were anything but a wonderful gift to Runa? From just such an egg was born Ken, and Émilie, two of the warmest Pokémon he knew; but more than that, as the first Pokémon to be born under Runa, they showed how easily anyone may love her if only they didn't think her way was unusual, but rather the natural condition. And Gaia said he was more maternal than her: this sort of feeling, he said, that he felt when he first held Ken, which made him automatically hum till he was sleeping, she said she didn't experience—but Runa did, he knew, felt it for all of them, just the same as if she picked up a little Dratini in a cage. It was to forget oneself, to be willing to give up any time or effort to see another developed rightly; and as another kind of love, not romantic but what could only be called the bond of family, a devotion with full grasp of one's senses, of the fair responsibilities of the thing, it was the highest feeling he knew.

Ken was on top of him now, hanging from his head; and Runa put her hands around his, and—no—he didn't feel a thing. It was all drowned out by the other feeling, this protective warmth for the little egg in his hands. And Ken looked and dropped down and put his hands over theirs, and said they would make it work rightly.

The first fragments fell away, and—a Beldum?—but no, it had fur, and little black tassels: a Riolu, yawning with his little arms in the air, blinking up at them. And what did one feel, he thought, born in so many hands, born looking at Runa?

The Riolu looked at them for a moment, the six of them all peering over at him—they would frighten him! he thought—and then threw his arms into the air and cried happily, sliding back into the shell.

Runa laughed and carefully righted him, holding his hands to lift him. "Hi, little guy," she said. And the Riolu leaned forward and put his hands on her face, the nearest thing to him.

"[He smells like egg,]" Ken said, looking closely. The Riolu put his hands on the Monferno's face, overjoyed for all the faces to touch. "_Fern_! [What's his name?]"

Runa said, "You were laid in Unova, to the Medivicis, so you'll be named in their tradition—Leonardo. Or Leo, for short."

Already he had a history; already he was in the fold, as it were. Runa opened the pouch of berries, in order, she had said with the others, to get to know his nature better. Leo looked, wanting it seemed to touch all of them but stuck in choosing between, and then leaned forward into the bag—Runa pulled out the slice of Watmel. "Oh, don't worry, Shadow," she said, and unwrapped it; they would get more, she meant. They had another sweet tooth, then, like Ken, he thought, and himself, whom he'd have to manage. She cut off a piece and gave it to Leo; he bit it, and his eyes seemed to pop with pleasure, falling onto his back again.

Cynthia's family were just ahead, Runa said—a nice warm cabin where Leo could run. But they needn't rush; and with Runa right beside him, holding his arm with the Riolu cradled in it, he felt hardly a thing affecting him. The little Riolu looked amazed at all the world below him.

Ken was on his head again, looking down at Leo. "[He looks kind of scrawny though,]" he said.

What would Runa say? "[Well,]" he said, "[if he decides he wants to battle, we'll train him to be big and strong.]"

And Hestia said, "[That's right. And you know, Ken, that Riolu evolve when they're very happy, and he looks pretty happy now, doesn't he?]"

"[So what?]" Ken said. For another Fighting type, he thought, bothered the Monferno, who was unusually quiet.

"[Nothing,]" Hestia said—"[just that if you don't evolve quick, you're the one who'll look scrawny.]"

And Ken began to argue, said it was all about time and not size, and Hestia stepped around each thing he said, turning it against him and having her fun. But Ken and Leo, he thought, would become great friends—like he and Gaia, even, sharing more than training, but history as well. How wonderful it would be! he thought, looking up at Cynthia's home ahead, the broad-roofed house where all her family were reuniting, where their own family, he thought, was all together, a full six now and Runa. (Still he wished Dyna were there to see; still even Torus ought to have seen and remembered.) Even at his side, Runa still did not affect him, felt nothing but the maternal warmth as he carried Leo, who watched the flame on Ken's tail as it flicked above him, still debating Hestia. Runa leaned against him as they walked, level with Leo, burbling nonsense at him; Leo listened and looked knowledgeably into the sky. Still he felt nothing next to her! Was it enough, then, he thought, the familial instinct, to overcome want of Runa?

Leo said, "_Lu-lu-lu_!"

Runa laughed, and wrapped her arm around his. But no, he thought—this wasn't it. His face was turning pink again.


	19. Level 65 - Ecruteak (Scene 1, pt 1)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 65**

"[This is why we leave early,]" Gaia said, who stretched her wings and arms as he landed beside her. "[Don't you miss this place?]"

Ecruteak City was much as he remembered it, all dressed in red and green, warm for the climate, as spring came early. The trees had all sprouted with pink blossoms, but they were cherry, not lilac, he saw. Gaia yawned and took his arm.

"[You two have fun,]" Hestia said, beating her wings again—"[I'm off to work.]"

"[As if we aren't,]" Gaia said, watching Hestia fly off. Then she looked at him. "[Let's go to the market and get a snack,]" she said, taking his arm. "[We'll need the energy later.]"

She was always doing this now, he thought, always grabbing him whenever people were about on the streets to look. It didn't help that they were nearly famous in Johto—no one forgot Runa's green Dragonite, battling Manda, even though it was over a year now. Would she compete again? they asked. We don't know, Runa said; it's not in our thinking, just yet. Of course there wasn't the least chance of it, in fact, with Team Omega about, but no one needed to know. None of the channels paid attention to Omega, an underground movement no one took seriously—none but the compact, it seemed. It was Omega's way, Manda said, to keep in the background, to build up a following more zealous by its exclusivity, until in some grand act designed to get the most attention they'd announce themselves, their platform, and their claims of an enlightened destiny for humans and Pokémon to the entire world. Diantha said it was just the same as Kalos, with Team Flare. One of Omega's supporters even interrupted that Unova show, with all the speakers—arrested at once, of course, but then released, only harmless, they said, and crazy. The champions were too stretched out, Manda said, to check every loose end of Omega's influence now; they appealed to the Diet, who were sympathetic, but not convinced (or not willing, Hestia said) that Omega was serious, and they needed more before they gave up resources. But others joined them, saw the danger; Runa took part in everything, now that the team was more advanced, Hestia evolved, Émilie evolved, and any day now Ken, and Leo … well, however it happened, he thought.

A dragon master, Lance had said, a great trainer of dragons, Runa could be. The compact needed her now. Runa said it was all from them, his work and Gaia's. He had spent perhaps years in the wilds as a Dratini (so Clair had narrowed it down, traced him, she said, to a particular branch of the caves, said she was certain now he was born of a Walrein, or a Sealeo, perhaps; had the neck of a Sealeo, Hestia said)—and then in a year and a half he evolved twice, and Gaia even quicker. At times, he felt, he had hardly been a Dragonair at all, the months all a rush of heat and haze. He could still remember the serpentine feeling, of feeling on many sides, wrapping all around Runa; but in years and decades, who was to say he remembered? He already had difficulty remembering parts of the Corner. Time passed, he said, too quickly.

"[But that's normal for dragons,]" Gaia said. "[We live longer, so time seems quicker.]"

Was that how it worked? He would trade in an instant those extra years for proportionally more sense of Runa. "[I just worry,]" he said. "[Isn't Lance almost sixty, now? By the time he's … you know … his Dragonite won't even be a hundred. And he was born with Lance. With Runa—]"

Gaia only looked forward. Then she took his hand and smiled, and said, "[How hungry are you? Let's find that market and get a basket.]"

By knowing that he loved Runa, Gaia knew everything: there was nothing else necessary, he thought, to working him out. Since his confession, as it were, she was closer than ever, even despite its conclusion for Gaia; and if he did not know her so well, he might think she was still trying to change him, holding him more often, inducing him to spar, touching his cheek every chance she got just to fluster him. If a camera was near she leaned into him, and if later another of those stories appeared, she laughed: The Fond Couple, or some rot, photographed as if on a trip to Goldenrod, when really they were on a mission—but the alibi helped to distract Omega, Gaia said. (At the same time, there was that between her and Lance's Dragonite, after her spell in Indigo Plateau, Perhaps it was only because she kept up with them, was quick enough to learn methods from Lance, enough she might teach them, that the number-one Dragonite took a fancy to her; but by the end, he suspected, she began to feel similarly, soon watched every clip she could, yet said that she would surpass him. Well, he thought, if they liked each other, then so much the better: he was happy, for she deserved the best. Did she think she would make him jealous always bringing him up? Of course he wasn't. It was only that he didn't want to lose her, his closest friend, over some fancy that mightn't be real.) But what if Runa thought it was true, and that they were in love? She gave them more time together—looked at them, sometimes, as if she thought! Gaia said it was only her being parental, now watching her children grow up independent. Once the thing was all over, Team Omega wrapped up in bags, as Lance said, it would all be back to normal—Runa would start the Goldenrod Academy, would always need aid, and so they would never be apart again.

People made space for them around the stalls. There one looked, talked to another, looked back; there, a human child clutching her doll, and another held up her phone. The vendors looked nervous—did they think they would just grab a basket and fly away? Gaia handed him the pouch: enough for anything, Runa said, and any vendor would sell to Pokémon if they were busy counting money. But they needed the basket, too—did the man understand?—too much fruit to carry loose. The vendor waved it away, smiling, counting. Gaia left to fetch her berries and clear a table, and presently he had a set of baskets: apples, lemons, bananas, and pitayas—so used to human fruits, he was, that he did not even look at the berries for Pokémon.

"[You'd better finish those,]" Gaia said, taking the lemons and laying them on the table beside a Belue berry. "[There'll be cameras here in twenty minutes, I bet. Oh! And here's for you.]" She produced a Watmel from under the table, split into quarters.

"[I— I'll be quick,]" he said. He pressed the ends of several bananas, laid them in his mouth for a bite.

She stuck a lemon on her claw and said, "[It's fine. Who cares if they watch, anyway? Just enjoy them.]"

In a minute Gaia said:

"[How is Ken doing?]"

He swallowed his bite and said, "[How's Leo?]"

She smiled and looked away. Of course one was free to dream as they wanted, Runa said; but whatever one's dream, it ought not to impede every kind of training, and what was to stop some agent of Omega snatching Leo up in the night if he hadn't mastered a single move? So Gaia told the poor Riolu, plied him with candies and promises just to take a spar beyond his daily exercise, so that he wouldn't turn out like one of those human students who didn't try a language or a musical instrument until they were grown, and so found it extremely difficult. Still, it was half the reason—all the reason, Ken said—that the Monferno still hadn't evolved, lacking a partner of similar powers. The truth was that Ken didn't fancy fire, but stuck to fighting moves, even though he was hardly large enough, even though Leo, if he applied himself, would probably surpass him, just as he seemed to quickly pass in everything he tried, really like Hestia though she didn't admit it; but that was just fine, with Hestia's fire, and after all, wasn't it better Ken did as he wanted? (Still, his stomach did get sore from all the punching.)

He said, "[Runa says he'd better start training with dummies, soon.]"

There was a joke there, he could see, but she only smiled and held it. "[He's as strong as Tan was,]" she said, biting her Belue, "[and he's still growing. It's just a shame Leo won't join him.]"

"[He doesn't have to,]" he said; and that was it, he meant, looking at her. For Leo was a soft spot: he knew exactly how it felt, to abhor battling (even if Leo liked to watch it), and the Riolu was so happy, so abundantly joyous (Apollo could not get enough of him, let him crawl all over his head; Jeanmarie said he made her tired to look at), that to press him into training, as Manda would, seemed criminal, and Runa was right to still refuse it. Granted that what any of them wanted was secondary, even Runa said, in the fight against Team Omega, but that did not mean costing him his first evolution. For Leo had the sort of curiosity which Runa wrote about in her book, the sort humans had who grew up to become artists or engineers, which signified original thinking. What did he want to do? Ask him, he thought, and the Riolu would have no idea. Everything and anything seemed to interest him; he seemed, at times, only to not have evolved because he was split betwen several species; and at an alarming rate he seemed to understand things, though always he moved on before he reached a full understanding. But he could read; and Runa showed him how to hold a paintbrush for calligraphy, and already his drawings began to take on shapes—he could master even kanji, she said, if he kept at it. But he didn't want to battle, that was certain; not that he didn't exert himself, as he did all the time, ran everywhere and used the gym daily, but he simply thought it unkind to fight other Pokémon—a Fighting type who hated fighting, Manda had said—and preferred that they play and run and eat chocolate.

Gaia said, "[Well, he's a better Pokémon than Rita was, anyway.]"

Why did she bring up history, he thought, and pretend they were old and buried? Dyna still had not seen Runa, even though they visited Hoenn again; Torus was always away; and Rita, he thought, the last they saw her, hardly looked at them, only watched her screen from a sofa. It was as if she didn't remember them! She only talked about a character in a show.

He split open the first pitaya. "[You haven't mentioned Lance's Dragonite,]" he said. "[He's really nice, you say.]"

Gaia looked away. She wouldn't take such bait in conversation when she already gushed at length about him; yet after the initial rush of reunion, returned from her couple months in training with Lance and his team—and the experience had not much changed her beyond ideas in training and Dragon-type strategy (her purpose in going, after all)—she had not said much about his Dragonite. Did she feel that she was falling in love? He did not ask. It was nice, of course, if she fancied one who could return it, one who already said he fancied her. There was plenty of time; and one ought to be sure, if they could help it, before forming a lifelong attraction. Was he nice? And how fitting, he thought—what a mark of her quality, even humans could see!—that Runa kept company with such champions and Pokémon, when she was still only seventeen, had only set off with Tanwen four years ago. Did it matter at all that she lacked a title? Not to the champions; Lance said that she was their secret member, that because she wasn't a champion, Team Omega were unlikely to target her (Red was such a secret member, once), and she could do things the others could not.

"[He said he can't wait to meet you,]" she said, piercing a lemon with her claw.

"[O— Oh!]" he said. The number-one Dragonite, he thought, asking after him! Suddenly he felt a little ill—had he left too much skin on the pitaya? The mission seemed a terrible idea; some other Dragonite, he thought, ought to have come. Wasn't Clair's available? "[He … he just doesn't know me,]" he said.

"[I don't know,]" she said. "[I told him I used to like you. Maybe he wants to size you up.]"

Why did she always put him on the spot like that? he thought, making him nervous just to prove that she could. It was egocentric, too: all the dragons after her, she meant. She wouldn't keep getting him like this, as if he minded. So he said, "[Does he have a name?]"

She bit another lemon sourly. "[Yes,]" she said—"[Dragonite.]"

And then they were in accord again, he felt, felt the same wind, as if among all the Dragonite in the world, brought together in one valley lacking any memory of each other, he would find himself beside her directly. For they agreed it was crass when trainers did not name their Pokémon, even those like Lance or Red, as if after years together they were no more distinct than a specimen in a ball. Humans did not name their child just that: child, or human, or girl or boy. Runa agreed, of course; said it was not really a sign of distance, common as it was, but was bad nonetheless. It was one of the things Manda deserved praise for, fine names like Apollo and Diana.

"[Oh, look,]" Gaia said: across the way was a professional camera. "[I hope you're nearly done.]"

He was not done: he already ate twice, perhaps, what Gaia had, and still he'd hardly touched the apples, or the quarters of watmel she bought him. She took his hand, held him for the photograph—standing like an imbecile, he thought, with a basket of fruit pressed against him. That was how the paper would report it: Runa's Dragonite, seen in market with son of Walrein. The photographer lady was satisfied; Gaia lead him away, said they would take a back street to the Kimono hall, had time, perhaps, to catch a show.

It was three years to the month, he thought, since they first passed through Ecruteak City, and still, he felt, looking around, it was the real heart of Johto. And why was that, he thought, when in many ways it had the least of civilisation? just a sleepy, old-fashioned town in the forest under the mountains. Goldenrod had life; it had society. It had crowds, which were not so bad if he had a companion; the underground, what felt nearly like a cave, but civilised; all around were shops and restaurants, something new every day; and Goldenrod, after all, was where it all started, with the Magnet Train to Saffron, which in a few more years would connect all the way to Hoenn. And now finally Runa's family agreed with Runa, and said there might be a school—subject to city approval, and whether they could make a use of the surrounding property, but that, Runa said, wasn't a problem, but rather their longed-for opportunity to get a foothold in Johto, and not without a little profit, or didn't a school need shops and residences? Developing any area, they said, ramped up property prices, which if one bought all the property surrounding … and there'd be quite enough who wanted it whose money ruled out the stipend, they said. But, he felt—and how hopeless he'd be, trying his hand at human affairs!—it would not be complete without some shaded boulevard, and little pink trees, as they grew on the streets of Ecruteak or Olivine. Some of his fondest memories of the old team and Runa were in Ecruteak: passing through as a Dratini, the first city after Goldenrod, clutching onto her as they climbed the Bell Tower; again as a Dragonair, just after Saffron, a real vacation, Runa said, since they didn't get to sightsee, and then the Kimono dance hall, all the dancers! Gaia asked what he saw in dancing, and he made up something about alien artforms, and anyway Runa didn't dance. (And what was dancing, really? To spin about; to put on a show, he thought. Runa was more substantial.) Anyhow, all the humans who really managed things only stood or worked from a chair: those were the champions, the leaders, who shook the world; whereas a Pokémon without a good body was nothing.

He bit the apple in two, and the couple ahead of them on the other pavement turned to look.

Passing under the shadow of the Bell Tower, just touching the afternoon sun, the humans watched them passing, these two dragons out of nowhere; and possibly, he thought, as they appeared so themselves, as when one was in love thoughts of romance coloured everything, they determined that it had to be some sort of romantic stroll. So Gaia held his arm, batted her wings behind him. It gave her a thrill to pretend, yes, but it was more than that. Every paper and report arrived at Indigo Plateau as part of monitoring Team Omega: there Lance's Dragonite would flatten out some photograph, staring. Runa too would see them; and suppose she thought they were in a secret relationship, only hiding it so as not to bother the team, get in the way of training, and so she sent them off alone more frequently? He sniffed, propped the basket between them; and as quickly as that Gaia smiled and quit, talked about Hestia's latest trick, how she managed to make a fire that when it burned let out a toxic vapour. For she was entirely over him, she meant, had that gift, to forget, that he did not. She saw he couldn't love her, and she let it go. Wasn't that wisdom? Wasn't it maturity? he thought. Runa did not love him, and did he let her go? Selfish as it sounded, the thought of being apart from Runa without her feeling his absence as acutely as he felt hers made his skin cold. If Runa sent him away, he felt, he'd turn to stone in Gaia's arms, however he imagined she could save him. (He put the whole slice into his mouth.) At any rate, he thought, he wasn't maturing as Gaia did.

And that returned to the critical matter, he thought—how to be sure that Runa kept him? To that Gaia had no answer. She didn't believe that Runa would leave him, and quit talking when he said he knew, only said that she also knew Runa. She knew that he had practised speaking, and didn't criticise—only thought him secretly mad, ready to pop and fall gibbering. Six months he tried it, before one night Runa asked why he left, as she noticed, or perhaps had known a long time, and he couldn't do it again; not to mention, he thought, that in all the time there was not the least improvement. So he would never speak like a human—very well. There were other ways to be clear. Suppose he asked Torus to help directly? Torus spoke far better than him: he could put into words the innermost thoughts of another better than they may themselves. But that would be meddling, perhaps. Psychics didn't get into others' affairs, for just the same reason as the psychic's rule: everyone would be at them, wanting it. Some simple advice, then, just what to do about it … But Torus wouldn't help. It had to be him, anyway, telling Runa, taking her hands in his—anything short was cheating, he said, and wouldn't persuade her.

"[It's hardly fair on Runa,]" Gaia said—and her advice was hardly better. "[You act like you're frightened of her.]"

"[D— Does she think that?]" he said. Perhaps Runa talked about her worries to Gaia, her only real confidant after Torus. She hadn't spoken to him about her private feelings since that night in the study in Hoenn.

"[She might,]" Gaia said. "[I'd be surprised if she didn't, the way you act.]"

He bit his lip. Could Runa really think that he was timid around her—about her—more than other things?

"[Does it really bother you that much, her touching you?]" she said.

He looked around—no Pokémon near. "[I—]" he said; but his blush, perhaps, said enough.

Gaia looked away; and then she sniffed and let her feelings, he knew, flash out a moment. "[What can you possibly imagine doing with her? She's a tenth your size,]" she said.

"[It— It's not like that!]" he said. Why must she bring it to that at once? he thought. "[And she's not. She's most of my height!]"

"[She's five-foot one and you're three feet taller. You're just over eight hundred pounds—I doubt she's even a hundred.]"

"[Well,]" he said—she really was being rotten, now—"[well, you're barely half my size, and you didn't think it was weird.]"

"[Oh?]" Gaia said, looking at him. "[You mean, being so hideously removed from you, I ought to find you repulsive? I can do that. Don't know how it fits your wanting Runa to rub all over you, though.]"

It was pointless bickering, he thought, and it made him feel sick. Even in dodging the point he was pathetic: throwing out of the Ice Beam's path, he buried to his tail in mud; and every word added minutes or hours to the reconciliation. Very well—it was true that Runa didn't pass the third fold in his chest, the base of his wings; she was a foot taller than he was wide; his mouth could kiss her cheek and shoulder simultaneously. But what did Gaia think?—that he'd throw himself on Runa, as she did that night on the hill, and squash her flat?

Gaia looked away for a long minute, and said, "[Look … I'm sorry, all right? I don't mean it. All I'm saying is if Runa thinks you're nervous round her, she's only going to give you more chances to be away from her—more missions. I mean, you're only here today because Iris's Dragonite threw another strop. Next time you might be first choice.]"

The image, he thought, of challenging the Unova Dragonite's famous pride and temper did not play well. "[But I'm happy to,]" he said—"[I mean, if Runa asks me to. I couldn't say no. And doesn't it make her happy, you know, putting myself out?]"

Gaia said, "[I think if you did—if you took a stand, and it was to stay with her—she'd be happy too. You know she likes you around. She has another Dragonite for missions, remember?]"

But that was the rottenest thing, he thought (he held Gaia's hand, and in a second she responded): that after all their time and history together, after everything she said about equality and Pokémon, Runa still was fonder of him than Gaia. And the reason (if this was still the case, if it hadn't now changed) was literally that he was weaker than Gaia, and she found him more dear; and that wasn't likely to change. Nobody but himself and Torus heard it, but what more confirmation of bias did they need than her swapping him for Dyna, on the day? Perhaps Dyna would forget, one day, but Gaia would not.

Gaia said quietly, "[You know … Runa asked me if you were growing apart. She said, From the team, but I knew what she meant. She said you've been more distant since you evolved.]"

He nearly dropped the basket; he caught it flat against his stomach. He said, "[Wh— When? What'd you say?]"

"[No, obviously,]" Gaia said, looking at him as though he were ridiculous. "[A few months ago, the night before I left for the Plateau. Then she asked if you'd be all right without me. I suggested you'd be fine. I was lying on both counts, of course. You have been more distant—and from what the others told me, you barely did anything with Runa, all the time I was gone.]"

He had surprised Gaia, when she returned from Indgo Plateau, by how warmly he embraced her—the end, he had felt, of the most extended trial he had ever experienced, as though he had lain flat on a table and Runa began slowly to creep up his body. No sooner had they left Gaia at the Plateau and set off back to Goldenrod, he holding Runa's arms around his neck, when it occurred to him what she meant for him: to hold him, to grow closer, all the time Gaia was away. She would try to substitute for Gaia, she thought, as he'd miss her. So she did—for one hour. Always Runa stuck a little closer after a fly, when rushing wind forced her very close; it seemed ridiculous, after being flush together for two or three hours, to mind a little touch; so she touched him, held his arm, said Gaia would be back before long. It was perfectly warm, the perfect trainer's concern … But he couldn't bear it. He made out that he stank, had to take a swim; and if Runa had followed him a short while later, showed signs of wanting to dip into the pool, he might have died, simply not known what to do. So Ken said that he was being skittish—Ken!—and after that he picked up Leo, fed him chocolate, and then made out he had to work it all off in training, had to fill in for Gaia, and Runa only let him go. And as one whose heart sang with a sort of resonance when she was near him, and felt heavy and dull without, after that he could feel, by whatever ratio, that Runa stayed away from him more often. And when Gaia returned, it didn't much change, if anything took even more time away; so that now, a couple months later, she sent them off together on another mission, as if she thought they'd like a tryst in red, romantic Ecruteak City.

"[You know we're still her favourites, don't you?]" Gaia said. He looked at her. "[She'd never say it, but we are.]"

He said nothing; but perhaps Gaia too knew the truth, he thought, that as Runa said, she could let go of all her Pokémon, if necessary—but not her little Dragonair.

The last piece of Watmel bled against his stomach, he felt, but he had lost his appetite. What a wretched thing it all was for Gaia! he thought, Gaia who did nothing wrong. At times the best solution seemed to be to fall over her, hoist her on top and let her have her way with him (she would would take advantage, too, he knew)—let Runa believe it, and then at least she'd think him happy, for two out of three was something. A fraction of people ever found real happiness, taking them all on average; and possibly, he thought, the most passionate people—for Gaia called him passionate, compared their feelings quantitatively, as if such a thing were possible—possibly those who felt strongest about things had it worst of all: if they were happy, it was the greatest happiness, but if they were miserable, it was the greatest misery possible in feeling, for all the things felt lacking. But why should even thinking about a thing, just to imagine it possible, and so to see it lacking, make one so desperately unhappy? for it wasn't true, that Runa let him slip away—she did not—or that she grew to care for him less—she did not! She would be with him for many years! He was her favourite, still. His condition was really quite good; and Runa was happy, more than before, wasn't she? Her dream was flowering in front of her, and in just a few years, perhaps, her philosophy would begin to spread throughout the world, thousands of students taking it up, the whole world of Pokémon improving.

"[Look—]" Gaia said; and then she seemed to change her mind, and said, "[Look, we're here.]"

It was the Kimono hall—he hadn't recognised it from the side. The last of a crowd seemed to filter in, passing through the darkened doorway. "[It's about to start,]" Gaia said. "[And it finishes ten minutes before he gets here, look. Let's go.]" She took his hand.

"[But we haven't paid,]" he said. He dropped the basket by the entrance, at which a sleeping Furret in another basket jumped in fright.

She said, "[Dummy, Pokémon get in free. We'll just watch in the back.]"

They ducked under the frame past the curtains. "[D— Don't call me dummy,]" he said.

The stage was set and about to begin, all the lights low so that only the hair and heads of the people were visible—two hundred tourists, perhaps, come to see the show, and the scent of different snacks and fruits mixing up, all come in just off the street, as they did. But presently, if he recalled, the air would filter out, and a sort of mist and incense would settle over, a powder, Runa said, to increase the effect. Then he was still a Dragonair, curled up beside Runa, and even then was not distracted from the show when it started. (The musicians took their places, each holding a pipe or a lute, one sitting at a set of drums.) Now, at the back where two humans could barely pass one another, it was cramped just to sit and watch.

The few other Pokémon moved over; and Gaia, pressing up between him and the aisle, leaned close and said, "[Gummy, then. You have Watmel on your face, by the way.]" She squeezed his nose. "[Here. You need me to wipe it?]"

She could be really impossible, when she liked, when he couldn't escape her, tricking him into what she'd pretend was some sort of romantic outing. It had to be her fantasy, just as he imagined lying next to Runa, to lie against him; and she was not above pulling him into a dance hall, drawing his arm round her, and getting close in the dark for an hour or two.

The lights turned down and the people applauded: the pipes started: the play began. There was a bundle of white silk on the stage, which appeared to crack: a human girl in white emerged, drew her leg out. Was it perhaps Gaia's plan? he thought—to get him excited with some show of dancing, some show of leg, and then press up against him? (But she was only getting a better view.) The girl unfolded the silk, face white, lips gold: her fans and dress caught the light, and (how humans invented such things, he didn't know) all had a rainbow undertone, like the swirls of soap or shells, or Gaia's skin under certain light. The girl, he understood, represented Arceus: this was the birth of the world. So began, Runa told them, the Dance of Legends—the same production they meant to see before with Runa. It was all the creation stories of the world mixed together into one narrative, and the encounters through history between humans and the legendaries; fitting then that they came today, he thought, when legendaries were the cause of their mission. He wouldn't have come if he'd known it! should have saved that experience, he thought, with Runa, even if Gaia wanted it. Shouldn't he stand and get out of there? Runa had taken such heart in describing it, such care in building an image of the slow intermingling of humans and Pokémon, that she was shattered when they had to reschedule, put it long after they had excuse to stay there, and so they had to settle for a regular show. As she said,

—It's all right—they're just stories,

but before that she spent hours describing the different legendary Pokémon, what she remembered from a long documentary series she ate up as a girl—didn't realise he saw it himself, every episode but the one on Xerneas and Yveltal, as that was the night of one of Mr. Game's drama finales. (But Gaia wanted to see, and held him, and to leave would be like pushing her over directly—he'd stay.)

The theme began to unfold, as each representative duo or trio of girls arrived, each another Pokémon of legend: Giratina, Zekrom, Mesprit, Mew, the great ancestors and generators, or violent forces. The silk seemed like extensions of their limbs, circled about them with a shape, he thought, that no telekinesis could ever hope to match—and this all air, and practice! Now girls in traditional dress appeared: the human interference with Pokémon of old, evolving with time, and the humans, he thought, always the more graceful, even when they started in torn rags, progressing to shorts and hats. The play, Runa said, had dozens of acts, but hardly a few minutes each, in order to cover the history; many were inventions—Mesprit certainly did not bring about emotions that way! spinning her pale blue tails around another—yet were based on the documentary's sources: the expulsion of Giratina; the work of the teachers; the rise of humankind, and their interactions with Pokémon, at first hostile. So the sense of it evolved, at first disharmonious, the dances obstructive, humans nearly running into Pokémon and each other, but with each act evolving into something smoother. The dances entwined more closely, the distances less, until some of the humans were nearly dancing together. Where a human acted out, lashed furiously on the stage with ribbons and turns, threw some other girl down, the Pokémon subdued her with a coordinated dance, an invitation to a locked pattern—and in what must have been an incredible quick-change of makeup, soon the older Kimono girls began to play the humans rather than legendary Pokémon, and the younger, the legends: so the human species aged, he thought, and new Pokémon were born, the role of the legendaries diminishing, coming in less often and with more disruptive effect, unused to the new dances. And then there was a battle, right on the stage: five of the girls' evolved Eevee enacting a battle of elements, the trainer girls appearing to issue commands with only a motion, a fan—like Runa, he thought, not a word spoken, only the music punctuating every movement. Though the bond between humans and Pokémon could not be put adequately in words (those reporters, he thought, rushing on to the next question as Runa talked, not understanding a thing about it), so a stage, its motions, he felt, more closely seemed to recreate it than anything he'd seen, the pink ribbons a perfect counterpart to her Sylveon's feelers—the culmination, it seemed, of however many thousands of years' history between them, bringing them to this union. The audience oohed and laughed, cried out, applauded as each performance ended. That such battling wasn't real, but a ritual performance, a show of ability, as Torus said, was obvious; but far from inconsequential, as the Alakazam may think it, battling, the play said, had a central role, not as a thing in itself but as a relationship between friends: a ritual by which humans, from their earliest history, had grown closer to Pokémon until, by their joint evolution, they shared a single society. Not that he agreed, of course, but that didn't refute it as a valid perspective, as the human girls and Pokémon passed one another, brushed so near and slowly … Gaia pulled his arm. He was leaning forward like some creep, he thought, taking too great an interest. It was not that he actually imagined something, he thought, looking away: it was only the growing closer. At the start, humans and Pokémon were like aliens to one another: now it was a Flareon, licking her human's face. So he couldn't help feeling that, according to this story, wasn't his love for Runa only the fairest, final step? Between the trainer and Pokémon girls there was hardly a space remaining; had there been an act of him and Runa, were they actors in the show, by Runa's own standard there would be no space at all.

It was about to end, he thought, the girl Mew floating across the stage, lingering from one final exchange with humans (and no human girl ought to move that way! drifting along like a Phantump), when the crowd gasped—a girl in black and red set upon her, tore off a piece of ribbon, and both fled the stage, left and right. The drums began to pound; the background curtain parted, and—oh! he had to take hold of Gaia. The girl was painted pale grey, her hips completely bare, a train of purple from her middle forming a tail behind her: Mewtwo, woken by the touch of Mew's ribbon. She was surrounded by layers of the same veil as hung off Arceus; and the humans around her, dressed in tight white robes, gave a flourish, a sort of invocation, and the veil around the girl Mewtwo flew apart. Suddenly she turned and whipped her tail, and the girls in white fell back. And then it was like a display, he thought, from the acrobatic tournaments, bounding onto the stage, her train always turning with such force that it really seemed to be a moving tail; and she was impossibly smooth in turning, and such legs, he thought, that she had to take some sort of protein. Now she looked, and he could not help but shiver—when she reached out her arm, he really believed for a moment that some psychic energy would fly out, throw back the entire audience, and some of the audience too recoiled. If he was not so far in love with Runa, he felt—He bit his hand and looked away.

The others returned: trainers, all the girls who came before, the Mew, a Jolteon with cheeks painted red. And—oh!—Gaia pulled him to sit again, but she had to feel the same: every Eevee began to launch a bolt of fire or lightning that missed the girl Mewtwo by only the smallest distance, as if she were untouchable, transparent, turning and lashing blue ribbons at them, so that every one fell before her, collapsing in turn, until only Mew and a single trainer remained. The Mewtwo kept her ribbon spinning in a ball, preparing to launch it at Mew, who stood away wrapped in her veil, when the trainer ran forward—took the lash, it seemed, in midair, fell stiffened to the ground. And then as though the dance were broken and she no longer knew the steps, for the first time the tail fell as the girl Mewtwo stood on the spot. The Eevee gathered at the fallen trainer, batted at her arms and face. For that was how it actually went, he heard: Mewtwo froze the trainer Red in solid stone, and only turned good once the love of his Pokémon became clear, the sort described in the dances of the play; and so Mewtwo came to understand the world, the connections between humans and Pokémon, and how the humans, who had been young, had become the guardians of Pokémon. So the Mewtwo approached, and touched the girl trainer, and she stirred; and the Mew flew up and embraced the other, and the audience applauded, and the girls bowed.

Quite suddenly it was all over, and the lights were up, people jostling in the aisle and looking at them. "[Come on,]" Gaia said, and pulled him up, back into the street.

The shadows were farther along, and the basket, he saw, was all pilfered, half a dozen pitaya peels remaining, a little Sentret running off. Gaia pulled him aside under the roof ridge, away from the crowd. "[Let's give them room,]" she said.

But why, he thought, why should he suddenly feel so hollow again—as if in a minute he might fold inward, burst into tears all over Gaia? It wasn't Runa, no—he would be back in Sinnoh with her before the next day's morning; nor the trouble with Team Omega, always, he felt, a thing they would handle, with all the champions and Runa herself against them, for what could they do, even with legendaries? No, it was something during the end of the play, in the final scene, he thought. The music? The touch—Gaia's hand, he thought. That was the thing: Gaia felt him shiver, knew he got excited, and looking at one who wasn't Runa. It was disloyalty, she thought, and hypocritical: it was to say, It's not so much I love Runa, as any human will do, but you …

Well, how to explain it? he thought. On the surface it seemed a powerful accusation, when Gaia looked at him that way (didn't speak at all, only watched everything). But what was such a girl, he thought, compared to Runa? That was Gaia's trouble, comparing them; for now that he was out in the light again, a dancing girl, he felt, had not the least power over him. In the same way that he preferred a Watmel to a Liechi, a carrot to a stick of asparagus, or a silk scarf to a backpack strap, so he might see one human or other and, not being Runa—who was not even what other humans called beautiful, even if he found her so—find himself differently affected, preferring one over the other, and that was not a sign of anything, he'd argue, but that he had capacity for feeling. As for Runa, that he responded somehow to another human didn't affect her, because her feeling was in another category, which overrode all others. She could offer him not a pitaya but a Petaya, not a dish of candies but a hank of long grass, and he would prefer it to anything some leggy girl offered: all calculations produced the same answer, with Runa. If she were beside him in the hall, he would not have even seen the stage, let alone some painted girl!

But anyway, he thought, what were such looks coming from Gaia? In the space of a few months, she claimed to have moved her feelings for him onto a completely different Dragonite.

"[You know, if you really like him,]" he said, "[I'm sure Runa could find you more missions together.]"

Gaia started, and blushed—perhaps she wasn't even thinking of it, he thought. "[Maybe I will,]" she said. She stood against him; the Kimono hall entrance was jamming up, now, as a few people stopped to look. "[He is the number-one Dragonite in the world, after all. He's very sweet. And fit.]" She dug at one of the folds in his chest. "[Not as fun to cuddle, though.]"

She only wanted to make him blush, in retaliation, he thought; and like a perfect wretch, he did. But before he could try to play it off, Gaia looked up, moved past him—for there across the street landed a Dragonite with a large bag, and no question who it was: there, the top Dragonite in the world! And did the humans know? Everyone stopped to look: three Dragonite, and no trainers about them. He began to feel ill, didn't want to pass beyond the tree and the pitaya peels, and why now did he remember the Dragon's Den? looking up at Clair's Dragonite, the first he ever saw. But Gaia beckoned and, having to stop more than once as humans moved to get around him, he came forward, and so it seemed— But no. Dragonite was certainly not nervous to meet them. And Gaia held his arm, wanted him jealous—but it wasn't that at all. She really liked him, this Dragonite, and she grabbed his arm because she cared, and he was clearly very fond of her, holding her hand.

"[I guessed you were seeing the show,]" Dragonite said.

* * *

_Split for length_—_scene continues in next part_


	20. Level 65 - Ecruteak (Scene 1, pt 2)

_Scene continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

He had arrived fifteen minutes ago, Gaia said, only flew around Ecruteak waiting: Lance's great Dragonite, milling about. But he was terribly fit; most humans would not have seen the difference, all Dragonite appearing much the same, they thought, unless it was obvious as with himself or Gaia, but there were clearly great cords of muscle in him—might pick them both up at once, if he wanted, if there were only a place to grip. Years upon years of training built up, produced a form that tapered to some boundary, the peak of physical potential; and Gaia had that as well, would get there eventually, and she had the Multiscale, what really set her above even Dragonite; whereas he had his blubber, and a bad posture. (But did Lance's Dragonite know, he thought, that Gaia meant to supplant him? He must have gathered it, at some point.)

Gaia said, "[Shadow, this is Dragonite. Dragonite … this is Shadow. He's a bit timid, you'll forgive him.]"

He offered his fat arm and said, "[G— Good to know you.]"

Dragonite took his hand and pulled him into a hug. "[But of course Gaia's told me all about her best friend!]" he said. "[It's good to finally meet you.]"

And how had Gaia described him to Lance's team? he thought, he the very opposite of a hardened battler. One of the humans began to take pictures, and Gaia said, "[Well, I'd suggest you rest, or drink some water, but something tells me you're adamant to start our mission.]"

Dragonite said, "[In a minute. We have passengers. We're meeting them here.]"

This was the first he heard of it, he thought. They might have said if he was going to carry some strange human, share his back with another!

Presently three of the Kimono girls came out of the hall, already redressed in robes for air travel, approaching, bowing before them; and there, like a stone teetering on the edge of a cliff, he felt, was the girl who performed as Mewtwo. They couldn't possibly have changed much under those robes; her legs, still warm from scrubbing the paint—

He surprised her, one of the girls who'd been wearing jeans, still had them he saw under her robe, as he took her hand and knelt beside her. They were part, as Dragonite would explain to them, of a mission of the most extreme gravity; and he would be back with Runa that same day, Torus relating. And Gaia followed suit, took the Mewtwo girl; and in a minute they were all high above the city, none of them used, he saw, to flying this way, each clinging onto their necks.

Finally Dragonite began to explain the mission, and their purpose for bringing the girls. "[They're the only ones who can use the Tidal Bell,]" he said, calling back to them. "[Once we've dropped them off, we have about an hour before they reach it and use the signal, and any Lugia wake up and leave the islands. Then we catch up and find out what they know about the missing legendaries.]"

Gaia said, "[How do we know there are any Lugia left? Didn't we rule this out earlier?]"

And Dragonite said, "[The Alakazam saw one. I don't argue.]"

Of course one didn't argue with Alakazam, he thought, let alone a gathering of half a dozen champions, Torus too amongst them. He had tried to explain their method: a filtering, of sorts, as like how several blurred photographs of a thing could be processed to make a better image—one did not argue. What could they see, when they pooled their perceptions? Not so far as where anyone was in the world, perhaps, but enough to detect a lonely Lugia passing into the Whirl Islands to sleep. It was their only lead, then, for it had to know where the rest went, why legendary Pokémon across all the regions were vanishing; why Articuno and Zapdos were turning up in the hands of Team Omega; why rangers on the Pondelore estate spotted strange vehicles on the grounds, and (so they suspected) took away only the finest young Pokémon, and used them for who knew what evil. And then there was the Pewter Museum broken into and raided, fossils stolen, information on old and powerful Pokémon cut from databases. Even the technical documents on Mewtwo's creation, what survived from the excavation of the lab where he was born, were stolen and wiped, only surviving through specially archived copies that the Diet itself controlled. Really the whole thing was more frightening, put that way—but have faith, Dragonite said, Gaia said, in looking at him, in Runa and the champions: it would all turn out well. (And he would be back in Sinnoh before the morning.) The team was not fully formed, not quite at the stage of fighting a tournament, if they wanted to, but still the champions already called on Runa in a serious way, asked her to search for the lake guardians in Sinnoh with Cynthia, paired her again with a champion! She would be very successful, after Team Omega was finished, and her school would be instantly famous.

"[What are we supposed to ask this Lugia, if we see it?]" he said.

Dragonite said, "[Whether they know anything about the missing legendaries, or about Team Omega and what they're doing with Pokémon. And apologise for waking them, too.]"

That was Olivine City, far away right; the water caught the sun's reflection right at the beachfront. "[What if they don't know?]" he said.

And Dragonite, without any hesitation, said, "[Then we close a lead, and tell the other champions.]" And Gaia looked at him; for that, she meant, was what was attractive in him, that sort of easy confidence.

Sad that humans couldn't tolerate high speeds or altitudes, he thought (they removed the scarves on their faces)—it was so much quicker in the thin air! Near the ground he could not avoid the feeling that he would crash into something, that every beat was fighting gravity; if Runa slipped, he imagined, he'd have hardly a second to catch her. But it would be terrifying, even for Runa, to carry her in his arms. The girls dismounted and unplugged their ears, released their Eevee, bowed and left for the cave.

Dragonite said, "[Remember, it's an hour before they ring the bell. We should be able to feel it.]" He took a map from his bag. "[These are the undersea cave openings … Lance figures three Dragonite, on these three points of the island, can spot any Lugia leaving underwater and catch up to them. The real worry is if Team Omega has a submarine near. In that case, launch a Thunderbolt and the other two of us can come help. Let's meet here after, so we can hear whatever the Lugia said, and take back the Kimono girls.]"

Lance's Dragonite flew off to his point, and Gaia turned back toward him. "[Yes, don't forget the Kimono girls, Shadow,]" she said, hitting him on the shoulder and smiling. "[You can have mine on the way back, if you like.]"

"[Don't don't get caught by Omega,]" he said; and she frowned, and flew off.

They had landed near one of the points, he saw, and as they both flew off for the two farther, he settled on the grass of the cliff Lance had marked. And mightn't there be other exits, he thought, ones only the Lugia knew? But he would watch as they said it, and do his part for the mission.

There was not a trace of human civilisation anywhere, he saw, only ocean and the sun and the shine on the water, and a flat nimbostratus slowly rolling towards land. (Or just about, he thought: there was a boat, near the horizon, but that was all.) There were no sounds or smells as filled the cities, no marks of paths in the sea: those dashed lines on the maps were imaginary, this being where humans had least impression. The Whirl Islands were not a common place for trainers; the only time before they visited was when Dyna evolved in the sea, right in the air on Gaia's back, and she had to land from the sudden change in weight. Tanwen was furious, all the way, wondered if they might not leave her. She hadn't evolved yet—that was the thing. She'd been with Runa the longest, a year at that point, and still a Quilava. And then just days after returning to the mainland, she evolved, and felt herself on top again. How long ago it seemed! How long was it, in fact? He had been with Runa for three years, now—three years and a month—over a year since beginning the new team. The time, he felt, began to pass quickly. That wasn't the case as a Dratini, when months seemed to inch by in long passages. Presumably that was what evolution did, especially so for dragons.

Better to have never evolved, he thought, looking over, and only have the fullest time with Runa: then he could evolve and let a time without her flash by. But he was thinking wrongly; and besides, Runa was not old, nor would be for a very long time. She was seventeen years and three months old: soon, her parents said, she would become an adult. And wasn't she adult already? Surely the thing that mattered was not age but experience—like Pokémon, perhaps, the energies that accumulated in a victory, eventually building up to a point in evolution. Humans didn't change all at once, of course; but the experiences built, and they evolved, from a child to an adult, so slowly one couldn't see it, and their thinking evolved similarly. So it became difficult to see her, sometimes. Sometimes Runa seemed no different from the girl in the Corner, her hair still feathered in layers, getting between her eyes and glasses as she studied something on a table. But then she may stand, walk across a room—and she was not much taller, but her walk, her whole way of moving was different. She didn't hesitate; when she took up something, she knew more often what she wanted. It wasn't a thing she talked about, but she had to feel herself changing. Change was on her mind lately: to travel lost its appeal; to settle took up in its place.

—You know, in all this time, we haven't lived in one place for more than a couple months. But you like the cities, don't you?

He had nodded.

—Right. I suppose it's only been a few years, hasn't it, since you came out of the wilds. How do you feel about living a long time in Goldenrod, or Saffron City? Do you think it would get dull?

He had shaken his head, but not at once.

—Well, there are lots of places, anyway. We don't always have to live in one place. Wherever the team is, is home, don't you think?

Strange, he felt it, only to sit alone in the wilds. Perhaps he wasn't long out of them (four years, in fact, counting the Corner), but it hardly seemed there was a time that he did not live among humans. The faded memory was there, some caves—the fear, not of being exposed (free of all that then, had never seen a human) but of shelter, of finding enough weeds to eat, of other Pokémon who might harm him. The Dance of Legends, that high epic, hardly seemed close to such experience; which was the experience, he had to remind himself, of the vast majority of Pokémon, however natural he came to take human society. Whatever happened to the trainer who was hired to capture him? Gave it up, probably, he liked to think, all his team abandoning him. He was probably the sort of trainer who traded his Pokémon, even those who grew to love him, who possibly even loved someone else in their team, to some stranger: balled them up after years of service and then, oh!—gone in an instant, bartered away for some newer, better Pokémon. Of course, he'd seemed terrifying at the time, the first human; and Mr. Game was hardly better. And then those first looks at humans, on the screen, and then the Winter World Championship—and that first girl trainer who walked in! and then it all started for him. A year in the cage watching the screen, hearing about the world outside, was enough to change any first impression. Yet whenever he saw the Game Corner advertisement, which Mr. Game never missed if he could help it, showing off the Pokémon and Gaia too (he had hidden in his compartment, he remembered), it looked fake, nothing like the world the rest showed, and so he wondered, how much was his own impression, and how much was really different? But who cares? Dyna said, itching her wool. It was better than being a wilder. It wasn't so bad, being caught: it was a free ride out of everyday difficulty, for just a little jaunty fun that probably they'd have had to suffer anyway, and without medicines to heal them afterwards. But their perspective was lacking; they only met wilders who thought like them, as the rest had already escaped it; nature would have him breathing the sea air, feeling the sun's heat and beating surf, and feel satisfied. And that was fair, he thought, if they wanted it. Routes and cities, and fancy hotels, Runa's poffins and hair conditioner, and the feel of her bag's fabric—these all rooted in him, and fit his thinking, but even he could admit that not every mon wanted it, and that not every mon—it had to be said—would necessarily agree with Runa's philosophy, which taught that Pokémon were like humans, when many such wilders perhaps had learned to see them only as others, passing by on the roads near their nests and shelters. And whilst he and other wilders were suited for civilisation, was that the majority, or even very common? For they were not stupid, and if they were common, surely someone would have invented it by now. Only humans had society, and once he thought that proof of something, but it was only proof of having certain powers, some critical factor, not all of them.

Runa had said, that night on the estate, that sometimes she wished she had been born a Pokémon. It was a common story in children's books, and in certain ancient mythologies, the Dance of Legends strange in fact for excluding them; yet Runa was very sensible, and still said it when she was sixteen, as if she still felt it—that wasn't usual. Of course she wasn't a usual person, always thought differently of Pokémon. As she would say,

—It's just Pokémon are so much freer than humans. (She felt the need to explain herself, later, struggled for words to express herself.) Humans put so much work and distraction on themselves, layers and layers of it, and worry about things that don't really matter. Maybe they start with some kind of dream, but after years of being told they have to be practical, have to think of their future and family and success, they give it up—just sell themselves into something they never wanted, to get something they never dreamed about. I know a lot of people don't have a choice—they have to, to take care of their family—but for most people, a lot of people, it's a self-imposed thing. Pokémon are free of all that pressure, at least … even if often they can't do what they dream of. Unless you want to be a battler, or, or breed, or flatten rocks for a living … But that's why both need to change, humans as well as Pokémon. They both need help in getting their dreams, and helping the other to do it.

If a human chose to live in the wilds, he thought, either it was in a cabin with all the amenities of human civilisation, or they were crazy—had to be, to give it up, born in such a better condition. Yet to want for nothing was a bad thing itself, or so Runa would say by her philosophy: no pressure to grow or improve oneself. Was Rita better off, now that she spent all day watching a screen and licking lemon candies? She would live a thousand years, perhaps, but at that rate she'd still amount to nothing, just a lot of costly carpets from all her shed fur. Still, one always wanted for something. He would have been just the same—wanting humans. So his nature was always, from before the breaking egg (or rather, Torus said, from when he first saw a human; but he was lacking something before then, he felt, only didn't yet know what). That response, that shiver seeing Runa, was not a trained thing. So it was natural, as Torus said—what wasn't? Everything that existed was natural, by definition: that nimbostratus, he saw, now covering the sun, was made by physical processes, but so were those clouds made by aircraft or Articuno: nothing whatever was unnatural because, if it was unnatural, it wouldn't occur. But then why, he thought—for this was it—why should he still feel ashamed about it? For it still had the feel of something shameful, whatever Torus said, that he loved her … no, not that he loved her, he thought. That he strung her out; that he didn't resolve it, like a natural love, but caused Runa pain as she felt him growing distant, was the shameful thing. That was what had bothered him all the way over, he thought. If only Torus would simply help him! Perhaps if Leonardo learned his kanji—

But—he was a clod—the ground, he felt: the bell. How many times had it sounded? He stood at the edge—perhaps he missed it? The Lugia darting off at the speed of a Magnet Train, he thought; the mission failed, all the legendaries getting captured, all the world too for letting down Runa. But he must keep looking, had to—oh! but that was a shape, under the water.

It was not a submarine, far too quick for that; it had angled wings like a jet that rose and fell in undulations. (Perhaps a human engineer once saw one, he thought, and that was how aircraft were born?) Quickly now it turned up and burst through the surface, surrounded in spray and mist, and there it was: the Lugia. And as if it felt his presence (psychic, of course), it raced up toward the clouds, trying to escape him. Oh, he thought, chasing after, what if it wanted to fight? He'd have no help at all; only an aircraft could possibly catch up to it, that or a Dragonite—or perhaps the Thunderbolt? But then the Lugia would really think he wanted to start a battle. The legendary plunged into the nimbostratus, and what could he do but follow after? Any moment, he thought, the Lugia could simply turn and lose him. But he only wanted to ask a question! he would say. Did the Lugia hear? It would have stopped, surely, for Lance's Dragonite.

He couldn't possibly go this high with Runa, he thought, so thin and cold, and he wasn't used to it, felt his wings beginning to burn from ice; and then, breaking through the top of the nimbostratus, there at once all the horizon lay out like a silver field, for a moment blinding him; and when his vision cleared, there was the Lugia, flying alongside him, looking over and yawning.

[Ah,] the Lugia said, even sighing in the psychic voice—

[Just as a dream surpassing splendid  
Dangled before me—that wretched bell.  
It matters not; another comes anon.]

Lance's Dragonite, he thought, made it all seem straightforward; now, as a legendary Pokémon regarded him, every question seemed to turn ridiculous. What was it that he was supposed to ask? And how did one address a legendary? But did it expect any sort of title or grace?—would it be offended and fly away, if he spoke wrongly?

The Lugia looked forward without expression.

[I may do lack of gender, little dragon,  
But do refrain from thinking me an it.  
I am Lugia.]

Why couldn't the Lugia have met one of the others, he thought, and spared him being such a fool? The psychic inspected him.

[You follow not the men who hunt, I see—  
At least, so far as you remember it.  
'Tis not a likely thing your mind's affected—  
Very well. Ask your questions, and give me peace.]

He had to say something, he thought, get the notion across. He said, "[I … I have been sent to ask—]"

[The legendaries, yes, all disappeared.  
But why does this concern your human heads?]

What could he say, that the Lugia didn't know? He said, "[If the legendaries are going missing, if it's—]"

[They are hiding,] the Lugia said, [—or are captured by men.  
And again, why care your human masters?]

Wasn't it obvious, he thought, that the champions protected Pokémon? "[They're trying to help!]" he said. "[We're against Team Omega, and, and we're trying to stop them. But we can't find the legendaries, to help. Where are they hiding?]" he said. Or why weren't they helping themselves? he thought, as the Lugia would hear. The Lugia looked at him.

[You know the cause—fear is what's blinding you:  
Fear and denial, the more befitting them.  
Since Arceus' egg, the germ descending,  
Humans have tried to twist the world 'round them.  
I see their perceptions, politic thinking;  
I yawn, and sparing sleep upon me falls.  
Again and again these fresh mortal actors,  
Afeard of a time when they're nothing, again,  
Create themselves lords of the world entire  
And rush to mark it—your friends excluded  
Not, who feel as others feel, which others—  
Just as seems most just, in seemly natures—  
Feel for selves' sake before another's,  
Being neither wise, nor psychic. To die,  
Which to your mortal minds seems all-destroying,  
The good and bad in equal measure worries;  
Who, craving more than mortal permanence,  
Mistake ideas for things, and build them up.  
Small wonder, then, of champion leagues and titles,  
Of schools and gyms, and parasitic gangs.  
If those you search for, ancient friends of mine,  
Appear not in your psychic party's scry,  
Think not that it is folly, and a fault,  
To value what they have, and you have not.  
Or is a patient master's patient slave  
Most fit to measure slavery's condition?]

At times, he thought, in first meeting Apollo, in first meeting Jeanmarie, and Clair, he felt what could only be called a strength of character, a mesh of experience and particular opinions so developed and thorough that, even if he disagreed with everything they said, he found himself unable to form an opposite opinion, only standing as if with the mind of an egg beside them—but none of them, he felt, compared to this Lugia, against whom even Torus would quiver. Legendaries were terrifying, he always felt; it was an open question, as the Lugia suggested, whether they were mortal, or involved some other plane; and here he was speaking ill of humans and champions, and by extension Runa, and he could not even make an objection. And the Lugia spoke very strangely, almost as if to avoid understanding, but that last was clear enough: the legendaries were hiding, didn't want to be found, even by the champions who might help them. But was this Lugia saying that humans were very different from Pokémon—that was an objection—somehow all in a lump together, opposite to what Torus himself said?

A thick cloud passed between them, and for an instant he thought that the Lugia dove under, left him with only that speech; but when it vanished the Lugia was very close, looking with neck turned toward him.

[I see you want to win some hard debate—  
A speaking method, one Alakazam,  
Stepping lightly round to flatter feeling,  
Agile mind affirming you, and quickly,  
To keep opinions you already held.  
I grant you, dragon, not all are alike:  
Some humans noble—your Runa, perhaps;  
Some psychics adamant, getting involved.  
In theory, all must differ, all must range;  
In practice, follow not such feeble thinking—  
Admit that where there's smoke, there's human fire,  
Which fire burns both field and human user,  
Neither having nature to direct it.  
And yet, you doubt me, dragon, and suppose  
That this capricious clutch of human offal,  
Who manufacture legendary mon  
Like bottles, has the slightest sight or view.  
Think as you like it; I am not affected  
If others fancy Arceus to be.]

He was being thick, he thought—the Lugia couldn't possibly mean what at first the words suggested. That the Lugia considered himself—themself?—to be wiser and cleverer than Torus, and fit to judge all humans as rot, was clear. But Omega thinking of themselves as like Arceus; Omega creating new legendaries, they said. Was the Lugia telling him about Team Omega's plans, detected by the psychic? Had they found a way to breed, to create, new legendary Pokémon?

The Lugia said,

[You make an effort not to miss, yet do—  
More forgivable than firing blindly.  
Were you copied—another Dragonite—  
Would this copy your mind be, or his own?]

"[Uh,]" he said—what would Torus say? "[H— His own. Because … because he wouldn't have my memories.]"

[Or character, or understanding; so  
Such simple mon will fail to please, for we  
Are what they wish to have, not paper minds  
Unworthy—if you think it worthy—of  
The title: legendary. Whether thence  
These clones inherit wisdom matching ours  
And us become, or pass away instead,  
Is their decision—either way, is balance.]

Team Omega weren't simply capturing legendaries, he thought: they were actually using some sort of science to clone them. Didn't they already have more Articuno and Zapdos, they saw, than had even been recorded in the wilds? And why, he thought, would they stop at legendaries? Hadn't they stolen Pokémon of the the highest quality from the estate? It was all to create a great army, he thought, the most genetically perfect possible, having no memory or thought of freedom but that which was given by Omega. That was why the legendaries were all in hiding—to be not only captured, they thought, but used to create evil, even if they themselves resisted! But the Lugia yawned. Soon it—they, however it liked—would be looking for a spot underwater to sleep, and still they were no closer to actually solving the problem: how to stop Omega, and save all Pokémon, even if the legendaries only saved themselves.

He said, "[L— Look, if you want to hide, that's fine. Runa, my— She'd say you don't have to, and it's our job to stop them, to, to clean up humans' mess. But won't any of you help? We're trying to protect you, all legendaries, and Pokémon. You won't have to hide if we beat them! Isn't there even one who'll help?]"

And the Lugia said, [No—  
Or not a legendary, I should say;  
There is a one, yet short in understanding—  
Though your humans would know not the difference—  
T'was interrupted most discourteously  
From dreams, by swarms of fool Omega men,  
Who suffered for it—yet who took a prize  
Sufficient for their purposes in crime.  
The one fled—and betray you not this trust—  
To caves Cerulean City sprang up near.  
Your Kanto champions know it all too well.  
Your ally to be importuned is there.]

That was it, he thought—a lead to follow, as Dragonite said! He would report to the others at once. "[Thank you,]" he said—"[thank you! I'll tell them, right away.]"

But the legendary Pokémon looked at him and said,

[So now this agéd Lugia you'll leave,  
Which mon, if I am not mistaken sorely,  
Has rather saved your hopes, and mission too,  
In failing which your Runa sad would be—  
And yet no dispensation for the deed?  
Is this your Runa's generosity?]

Now he felt himself flushing all over—true, he didn't ask if he could repay the Lugia in some way, for how could he help such a Pokémon?—but now to mention Runa, as if he proved her foul by not offering something! "[I— I didn't think you'd need anything,]" he said. "[If I can help …]"

[Your questions I have answered,] the Lugia said; [now you mine:  
A simple matter, if you answer truly.  
This Pondelore, which girl affects you most  
Exceedingly, creator of a new  
Philosophy, which thing effects in you  
Such fantasy—this is a girl, you say,  
Not only marked of humankind, a font  
Of universal qualities, this girl,  
Whose thinking would accept it without question—  
This girl may even love you, you believe:  
May love; and by a love you mean not warmth  
As any parent ought to feel for child  
But warmth as felt between two like in kind  
And like in feeling, only flesh demarking.  
Is this the case of it with you and Runa?  
Is she your counterpart, and you are hers?]

As the Lugia spoke, he felt himself grow increasingly uncomfortable, less steady in his flight; now he felt the only thing preventing him from burning up in the air like a meteor was the ice of the cloud which stuck to him. If some Electrode the size of the sun exploded, some wall of glass burst into pieces, one could only flinch and turn away, stand fixed on the ground, even knowing the effects would presently pass through them. He couldn't look at the Lugia, now, for wasn't that the only possible reaction, to turn away, admit his shame?

"[It— It's not that,]" he said. (But Gaia would be proud, he thought, that he even spoke a word.) "[I— I know it's impossible.]"

But the Lugia smiled, or something like it, and said,

[That Latias you'd like to know, I think,  
Whose word for those who doubt the strength of feeling  
Is not a word, but pressure of the lips.  
But asking is a question, born of others,  
Whose answers you require before an act.  
For how would Runa feel for your heart's feeling?  
To what end leads her fair philosophy:  
To think your nature sweet, or vile extremely?  
I cannot say: I know your Runa not.  
'Twould take a psychic view to know for certain  
What only risking all you may discover.  
This Torus speaks to balm your feeling; says,  
Affix no shame to your condition; begs,  
Hope not beyond all probability.  
Believe you not that within every shore  
A scale of heart lies waiting paired to yours;  
Yet neither think a gem is so unique  
That many cannot form by nature's method.  
May Runa love? Not likely, Torus says,  
So why not spare yourself of any chance  
But keep instead your variables in check?  
And bother not his greater world equation  
By dreaming of a fuller mode of life—  
So people are to mathematic minds.]

Alakazam were powerful, he thought, amongst the strongest psychics in the world—but to a Lugia, weren't even they inferior? Torus had to know what he was talking about—and he wouldn't lie to make things easy, would he? to keep a little more advantage with Runa?—but perhaps, as was often the case in a thing, being quite intelligent only got so far, whilst actual understanding and knowledge of the thing, of being psychic, got one farther than simply thinking things through … And yet this Lugia hadn't met Runa, and had no knowledge of her but his own, read through him, which he had to know was affected—

"[But she couldn't,]" he said. And why not? the Lugia seemed to say, with a strained look, as if in pain for the further wasted seconds of life. "[And Torus, he wouldn't … Her, Runa's parents—]"

The Lugia turned away, began to move into the distance.

[Deny it, then: prove their authority,  
Which human fools and calculator both  
Are more machine than mon, or thinking creature,  
Accepting only laws and formulae,  
Great counterparts in fear—and so much easier!  
To only keep unchanging on forever  
And fighting not such partial thinking, which—  
In thinking we have minds befitting children,  
And seeing not the infant mind is theirs—  
Declares taboo a love between the kinds.  
If such persuasion fondly dwells in you,  
My effort's done: I take my leave anon.]

The Lugia began to sink into the clouds, and in a moment, he thought, even if Team Omega had psychics, even if they captured and controlled other Lugia, this one would never be found without wanting it—wrapping up, he imagined, into a ball of psychic tendrils, preventing any thought from escaping, only falling again into a deep sleep.

[Speak, if it pleases you, and trust in Runa,  
If so assured that she, your love made known,  
Abandon you will not—as she, grown distant,  
Did only twice her Pokémon before.]

The Lugia passed out of sight into the clouds; and at that, he thought, turning back towards the Whirl Islands, he was not above wishing for a moment that, when the bell had rung, he hadn't heard it..


	21. Level 70 - Black City (Scenes 1-2)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 70**

Nikolai Black was a good man, Runa said.

He went a strange way about showing it, he thought, building up a city like this! Every tower was made in hard-angled shapes, many as tall as the ones in Castelia, and each as dark at the other. The wind all tunnelled between them, seemed to concentrate around the Black Tower itself; and even when the champions let off a lightning strike and for an instant the whole sky was bright, the glass let through nothing behind it, only showed the arc in its entirety down the wall. What was really going on inside it, even before Omega invaded? It had to be related to Pokémon genetics, or wouldn't Omega have left it alone? Whatever it was they didn't take it seriously (and didn't that prove they couldn't be all good?), for how easily they took it over: Team Omega stolen up in the night, Team Omega teleporting directly inside, captured Mr. Black and everyone, would have held it for weeks, perhaps, before anyone knew, if the Alakazam hadn't seen the memories of those Fearow, spoken to the Honchkrow who'd fled the roof. Now Team Omega had a whole crew, an army, occupying the place, had been in for a month already, and it was almost impervious. How was it possible this sort of thing happened? The black glass, he thought. All the people fled the city: they knew something terrible hid behind it. They had thought till now Omega were only a few hundred, and now this—taking over a city!

Torus said, "[Calm.]"

It was an absurd plan, he thought. How did the Alakazam ever calculate it? If Torus could teleport a group precisely like that, why didn't he do it in the Dark Cave? From their view in the tower opposite, he could see nothing, not even the divisions of floors. Suppose they arrived in between them? It would be like they melted into concrete and metal—dead at once. It didn't work like that, Torus said; and he knew the blueprints, used the movement of people, he said, to exclude obstacles. Still, that was hardly definite—ending up inside some table or plant nobody came near, or with his head inside a light or fan, so that he collapsed gurgling. For he was too tall; too fat, and bumped into things. They may have chosen anyone, Red's Pikachu, perhaps (but he was needed for the thunder), or Gaia, half his size (but she added hers, with Runa on her back, and Émilie, and Ken on Hestia's back both throwing fire); but instead, Torus asked for him, persuaded Runa, and then how could he prevent it? He would ruin it: he would freeze solid as Articuno set upon them, wall up the exit as trainers came running. They were ready for dragons, even Lance—a horrible mistake, to send him! It should have been Gaia; he should have been carrying Runa, keeping absolutely sure she kept safe, launching Thunderbolts, helping the distraction, not having it all hinge on him, all hanging on his quality, ruining the mission and then captured, taken away from Runa—

Torus said, "[Apollo, calm him.]"

Apollo held his arm and said, "[Yes, do. It'll be a lovely little romp, you'll see. And there'll be a big feast after, how's that? You'll be lauded by Runa and everyone! After this you're practically a champion.]"

The Charizard didn't help, he thought, making it out as champions' business. If they had only put in him a serious mission earlier, one where they saw the nerves get to him, they'd know not to risk it, not to trust him with everything …

"[Your worry complicates this, Shadow,]" Torus said. "[We have our opening. Calm, and we will go.]"

The trick of it, Torus said, was not so much the teleport as the keeping it hidden: Team Omega had powerful psychics, Cresselia and Latios and Metagross even, who might detect a teleport anywhere in the city—unless there was a great distraction, something to occupy every psychic, or at least to split their attentions. It was to be a stealth mission under riotous cover: they would only discover when the lightning ended, and they found their labs all smashed. So Torus had to hide them, mask their minds, or they'd see and send in an army; and to mask a worrying mind, Torus claimed, was more difficult than a calm one.

"[I— I'm calm,]" he said.

"[As you say,]" Torus said. "[Arms together.]"

Torus crossed his spoons, and there was a white flash—that loss of weight, as if he evolved, all points of his—oh! he fell a foot, tumbled to his tail.

Apollo took his arm and help to raise him; only laughed that he should worry, that a big, burly dragon like him, as he said, wouldn't fancy a little adventure. He looked about the room, a lounge of sorts, all black and steel tables and chairs.

"[How's it look?]" Apollo said.

"[Our objectives have changed,]" Torus said. And what did that mean? "[All quarters are locked down. Most of their forces are battling. They do not wish to lose this tower, but they are making preparations to purge their research which we cannot prevent. Only one laboratory is occupied, twelve floors below us, this side of the tower. That is our target.]"

The Alakazam seemed to pause. "[What's wrong?]" Apollo said.

Torus said, "[The maintenance shaft is this way.]"

There was obviously more than that, he thought, but Torus was always short, didn't have time to explain it; and the more minds that thought of something, the more strain it was to hide them, and with who knew what psychics under Team Omega's control, clones of legendary Pokémon who knew nothing but this rotten team, better they only obeyed, he thought, following Apollo, and trusted in his secret plan. Most of the champions, certainly all of the regular trainers who joined them in the battle raging above, thought that was the entire purpose, to drive Team Omega from the tower, and perhaps that was the largest part of it—certainly would be enough of a mission, Omega outnumbering them three to one, and having set up the tower like a fortress; but Runa and Torus developed the thought (which, being sensible, they must have told others) that there was value in sneaking inside the building, in trying to find out their plans or something, and so became Torus's mission, for which he specifically requested Apollo.

—I bet I know what it's about, Apollo had said, but I won't tell you. Besides, I know I'm wrong.

That was fair enough for Polo, he thought, who was after all a great champion; but why Torus wanted him, he couldn't imagine, though if Torus said it was for the better, he wouldn't question, only do what was asked to help. It was better sometimes, he thought, just to follow—which Runa wouldn't want to hear, he knew, but she had to understand that not everyone was so independent. Imagine trying a mission on his own, when anything might go wrong by a moment's distraction! Nothing snuck up on an Alakazam: every possibility was predicted in advance; so he ought to calm, for if Torus thought the both of them most fit for the mission, they simply had to be.

He helped Apollo to pry open the metal door: this was the shaft, twelve floors, Torus reminded them, hovering into it, his spoons raised ever since they entered the tower. There were no cables in the middle: far below they were all piled in a heap: Team Omega protecting themselves, he thought, but they did not account for fliers.

"[This door,]" Torus said.

He meant to get a grip with Apollo; but in a moment the door glowed in blue, and he heard metal tearing, some sort of internal lock shorn to pieces—the door opened.

"[O Shadow,]" Apollo said, landing ahead of him, "[watch my tail, won't you?]" And he flicked the flame just under his nose, nearly touching.

Apollo was always like that, he thought, following behind (the thing was barely wide enough, both his sides touching, all bare concrete and pipes along the walls), always leaving Gaia when he entered to talk with him. It nearly seemed as if he expected something—to confess, as if Gaia told him everything. She promised she hadn't, not one, but Apollo always broke into strange moods when he saw him, as if it amused him: his lifelong friend, the lifelong love of her own dragon! Wasn't he very loyal? Apollo would say: A lovely, loyal dragon, and laugh. He could hardly ask if he knew anything; perhaps he didn't, only liked to fluster dragons like Jeanmarie, and timid ones the best. But would he be so jolly when it all came out, and Runa's heart broke, and she sent him away?

What were they doing in the tower, he thought, that they needed all these cables and pipes along the walls, all this power for their research? He could barely fit between them; he slowed them down, Apollo looking back more than once: the battle extended to allow for his bulbous girth, and who knew how many more Pokémon injured for it—or captured, stolen by Omega from their trainers? Oh, perhaps the battle went horribly? and presently the rest would have to flee, beat a hasty retreat, and rushing back through the tunnels, he got stuck—all fried with electricity bouncing through the pipes around them, as they stuck behind his tail, and then become Omega's new experiments! (But Torus looked at him: he had to calm.)

They passed a junction: ahead, where Torus lead them, was a sheer drop with a ladder. They couldn't possibly spread their wings—the ladder would tear right off in his hands, or did Torus expect them to drop, crash against the bottom and alert everyone? But Torus paused, and touched the wall.

"[This is our target,]" Torus said. "[We are directly behind the chamber. But our plan has grown complicated. It is time to be clear.]"

Apollo snorted and said, "['Bout time. It's the Mewtwo, isn't it?]"

But of course! he thought. He was an idiot not to think of it—the genetic material stolen from Mewtwo, snatched by Omega for who knew what dark purposes. He looked at Torus.

The Alakazam said, "[Correct, but our course was until now undetermined. We did not know the state of any research. Now we find ourselves in a strange position. There is a product of this research, now living—only one. It is already sapient, I see, developed to the point of first thinking. Yet it is unable to survive without life support.]"

Apollo said, "[So what's the plan?]"

Torus said, "[We resort to a contingency which I hoped to avoid, but which may yet secure a happy outcome.]" Torus looked at them. "[You both trust me, of course.]"

"[Not if you have to ask,]" Apollo said. "[Just tell us what to do.]"

Torus raised his spoon; and presently an image of the surrounding space came to mind, just a shape and a two-level barrier towards it, and all three of them marked in colours. Then the barrier broke, and the red flew in, and the yellow and the orange, and as Torus said, "[Metal Claw, Earthquake, Thunderbolt, each as I command you. I will handle the men and Pokémon, and Apollo will guard the entrance. We will have perhaps four minutes until they arrive in force. From then it will be more difficult. As I say, you must trust me.]"

Apollo was right, he thought, standing behind him, beginning to build the Thunderbolt in his hand—it didn't help when Torus had to keep reminding them. The Alakazam stood back and raised his spoons; and in just a few seconds, as if the moment came early, he heard Torus's ping, and Apollo placed a hand on the wall and, building up the energies almost instantly—far less, it seemed, than battle priorities limited—he dug his claws in; and at once the entire wall exploded, blew to pieces flying inward. He heard a crash of glass, a shout—a gap as wide as Apollo's wings, right through a wall of monitors and glass looking into some sort of laboratory, and there were men running, one collapsing just aside the rupture.

"[Thunderbolt,]" Torus said.

He leapt through, into what?—but there a console glowed, Torus's marker, and he let fly the lightning he'd built up. Banks of machinery and monitors burst all along the wall, blew into sparks; now a pipe let out water and steam, above them; Apollo pulled him forward. The human researchers were all running away from them, shouting, fumbling for their belts to get help or send Pokémon. And then Torus was between them, teleported in, and he threw out a blinding blue light: all the humans stopped, slowly dropped to the floor—at once put asleep, he saw. Torus put up a barrier and moved the people off the middle floor, where water from the pipe began to build up.

The alarm stopped, hadn't even started that he'd heard, and could not have been up for more than several seconds, yet Omega must know already, he thought, were going to arrive in just minutes—but that was beside the matter, he thought. He couldn't help but only to look at it, at the medical tank, all the tubes and vessels leading in.

For a moment it looked nearly human—like those photographs, he thought, from inside the mother, when they were still connected together, and humans still had their tails; but now again it looked like Mew, only stuck here and there with wires. It couldn't be twelve inches long, he thought, its eyes still covered in skin, its tail all bony, and webbed toes and fingers—this was living? This already had a mind, Torus said, and could think?

Apollo seemed to think the same: he looked at it and said, "[It's, uh, sapient, you say?]"

"[Yes,]" Torus said. He lowered his spoons and looked at them, standing before the tank. "[This is a clone of Mewtwo, in process of birth. Already it dreams, though it cannot yet hear us.]"

He stepped closer to it, up to the glass, and his throat (but it couldn't hear them, Torus said) began to grow tight and painful. To be born in a tank, he thought, enslaved from birth, not even a chance to know otherwise—and disposed of at once if you disobeyed! On the estate any Pokémon had a chance to grow freely, the great majority doing as they liked; this poor creature was to be a slave, its every thought screened and censored, never knowing a thing about the world around it. The legendary birds were not psychic: they cloned easily, took little to control when they knew only Team Omega: the few they released were like newborns, as the Lugia said, had minds nothing whatever like the legendaries. But a psychic needed all sorts of leashes, knowing better as they did the real motive behind things. This little thing would evolve in a cage, only let out once its mind was broken. It was horrible; it was the very opposite of Runa's philosophy! It was exactly as Mewtwo told them in Cerulean Cave. Team Omega set upon his home with an army and captured him, took his blood, tried to take his memory before he broke free and destroyed the convoy that carried him—killed them, perhaps (he did not say), but too late already to destroy every sample, which as Torus suspected had ended up here. So they had deciphered his strange genetics, worked out how to make a clone in a fraction of the time, had just about finished their new factory. They would clone a thousand more, and enslave everything, bring the whole world into the worst possible condition. And this, as Lance said, all because their leader fancied himself wiser than ancient Arceus!

Apollo was asking something, and Torus answered that Omega's process was costly, all of their samples deteriorated, so that the little creature in the tank was due for harvest—if not destroyed, then kept as a kind of blood-factory, from which they might make many more. But, Torus said, "[If this lab is destroyed, they cannot make another.]"

Born not of an egg, he thought, in some trainer's hands, its first touch would have been an electric collar. Now it was still trapped behind glass, looked at by those who might save it. And they had to, he felt, must try everything; for there was Leo in his arms, looking up at Runa.

—_Lu-lu-lu!_

He turned to them and said, "[We have to get it out of here!]"

Apollo looked at Torus. "[Can we teleport it?]" he said.

"[It cannot yet process oxygen,]" Torus said. "[It would die in minutes without a vessel.]"

Then the whole tank? he meant to say; but even Leo wasn't so optimistic, he thought, that Torus might transport so much loose machinery, and somehow keep it working on the other end.

Torus looked at him and said, "[The tank is already beginning to fail. We might leave, and our work would be done. No trace need survive of use to them. You would not need to watch Apollo's fire.]"

"[N— No!]" he said. It surprised him, how suddenly he felt for it, something he had never to now had seen—but what else? He shook; he quivered, looking at the two. Apollo couldn't return it, only looked past him to the embryo, as if to say that, if it couldn't be helped, it was better it died than stayed with Omega, even as a body to study. And Torus only stood and looked. "[It's our fault if it dies! We have to save it. I— I'm not going back to Runa and saying we didn't even try. Tell me that we can save it!]"

And Torus—thank Torus!—said, "[It may be possible. The researchers did not anticipate moving it _in medias res_, but they expected to create many more. From this tank's experience, they developed a membrane to regulate nutrient intake, examples of which are here. However, the membranes are fragile, and the reserves they require are in another place too guarded to reach. But there is a vessel, with ample reserves, which may transport it to Castelia.]"

"[Good,]" he said: they would save it: it was possible. "[Good. Where is it?]"

Torus looked aside for a moment, and said, "[Let me be … quite clear, as time is short. I mean you. You are the vessel.]"

"[I—]" he said, and blinked. But that was absurd, of course. "[What?]"

"[Do you have a body?]" Torus said.

What sort of question—? he thought. "[He does,]" Apollo said.

Torus said, "[Then he may carry it for a sufficient time. This is why I asked you to join us, Shadow, for this circumstance. Your volume will maximise its chance of survival. We have at most two minutes to operate.]"

This was not really happening, he thought; Torus would laugh in a moment and say that he only wanted to relax him by making a bad joke, and that the embryo was bound to perish; but the Alakazam only looked at him, quite intent, as if to say, You must trust … but he hadn't imagined this! Had Torus even tried such a thing before? He was clever—did that make him a doctor, a surgeon? All he ever handled were spoons. Was that how it was, scooping parts out of him?

"[N— Now, just a minute,]" he said. Across the room, Apollo covered his stupid grin. "[What are you saying?]"

And it had to be the first time Torus ever showed a feeling, he thought, for the psychic sighed—exasperated at the idiot dragon before him. He said, "[The clone needs food and a sealed environment. Attaching the membrane to your abdominal wall will of itself produce the necessary connections and hormones,]"—now Apollo laughed aloud—"[preserving it as far as Castelia, where the Medivici labs can remove it. If you wish it to live, you will agree. There is no time to question.]"

The sweat was running off him in a pool now, surely. He said, "[H— How does it get in?]"

Torus raised his hand: from a table across the room, a scalpel flew into it.

To think Runa let this Alakazam near her! But now Apollo stood behind him, held both his arms, suddenly very serious. He said, "[Shadow, if he says this is the only option, I don't think you're in a spot to argue!]"

This is what he got for feeling too warmly! He said, "[Why don't you do it, then?]"

"[Because,]" Torus said, as he threw debris from the floor, "[you are three times his volume, and many times more likely to keep it alive. If you mean to help then lie down. I will block your sensation of pain. Apollo, watch the door. They are coming. You will need to cauterise the cut, and destroy the lab after.]"

[And of course,] Torus said, as he unfolded some sort of thick translucent bag, [it pleases Runa greatly whenever you step up.] And that wasn't fair, he thought, lying out on the floor; and was that a thought of Runa's, given by Torus, who said that psychics never revealed a thought? But nobody could say that he didn't volunteer!

Torus said, "[This will be … brief.]"

The glass of the tank cracked: in jets the liquid began to rush out, adding to that on the floor which now pooled around him. Now the embryo moved closer, held suspended in a ball of liquid by Torus. His legs were trembling, he felt, and soon his tail …

Torus's eyes shone a bright blue light, and now everything else seemed to fall away as if at a far distance, every sight through a mist, every sound a thick blanket. He felt his body's warmth expanding, filled all senses. A red glow filled the room and went away. He felt a touch run across his stomach, in the fold just below the thickest part, like a nail lightly tracing it; a movement in the ground, Apollo stepping near perhaps, which became or joined into a constant vibration. He felt Torus leaning over, felt cold as if he breathed mountain air, leaning past what was regularly close, into the warmth of his body; and he fully stretched out, past what was regular, the sphere of his heat spilling open; and then he felt nothing, only the cold and warmth.

When Runa touched him just below the stomach, he thought, he felt a warmth passing through, tingling his skin: that was the breeding reaction. If he were human, or she a Dragonite, would the touch be for her similar, as like Gaia who lay on top of him? What was human breeding, that it involved embryos? Pokémon bred by rubbing, or powders, like Venusaur touching flowers. You rubbed and rubbed and loved the other and were loved and then you fell asleep, and there was an egg beside you. The egg didn't come from inside—it was like a thing on the skin. If Pokémon had embryos would that mean that humans and Pokémon could breed? The science confused him; he never saw that show, Mr. Game always putting on dramas and ads for the Corner. Runa reached level fifteen, a record, they said. What if Runa asked him to try breeding? asked him to step up? With humans, breeding always happened behind doors. Would he know what to do if she asked him? He would try, if she asked, but he didn't know. Gaia liked to rub against him, but that wasn't breeding; just being close. It was right to be close to many different people. Every time he came back from a journey, she always hugged him first. Runa never went behind doors with a human, not like that. She loved her family, she said, her Pokémon, and that wasn't the same kind of love. Humans had taboos about love between kinds, the Lugia said, but it was different, humans said, in Pokémon breeding.

Lugia were psychic, and heard things. It was like an extra sense, feeling people around. Did it come from far away and brush over, like ripples, or was it always present and passing through, changing the waters inside? That would be strange—all the unwanted thoughts of strangers passing. Did a body inside a body have a different mind, or was it the same mind, or was it two minds but minds partly connected so that they ended up more in the middle? Something was moving. The mist turned red, then white and blue. He was working up a terrific sweat, all coming up his sides. Someone said something, but it passed; nothing was said. And Torus stood on him, leaning into him. If he was not careful he would fall in, and that would hurt—he was very cold. There was a hollow of something cold inside him, he felt, which now was running down his stomach. And the warmth, he felt, connected above him; but there the cold inside it remained, and was smothering the warm. Oh! a great warmth, he felt, a red mist all around him. But the cold was getting warmer, now—Torus stood beside him. He was about as tall as Runa, about her weight. His face came very close, and he said something. Alakazam had very good noses for spoons—a spoon didn't stick for a second on his. Torus went away, and then it was just the mist. He felt vibrations in the floor, something moving, and more red. His belly shook with the cold inside it. If Runa jumped on him, would she bounce off?

But this pain in his middle was becoming a matter. Torus spoke again—now he heard it. It was like a shape, coming into focus (Torus's face again), a screen. The water around him wasn't cold, now.

In a blink all the mist seemed to sharpen, the sound became clearer, and the pain! oh, right across his stomach, right through his middle, so that for a moment he couldn't breathe; and then the pain dimmed again, but he could still see more clearly. The light of fire was dancing across the room, on the water; the crack of electricity; the tank, he saw, was no longer there.

Apollo leaned over him, sweating. "[Wha's wrong?]" he said.

Torus put his hands on his face; they felt cool, and were coloured red. "[He must get to Castelia,]" he said.

He felt his whole body grow lighter, as if he suddenly filled with air; both Torus's eyes were blue. Apollo was behind him, pulling his arms, and he grunted, laughed. He said, "[I take it teleporting's—ugh … not an option.]"

Torus said something about psychics alerted, some block, and some other problems, and the rest he missed: another pain swelled in him, rising and falling in a wave, and Apollo snarled as he grew heavy again. He must have had more nerves than he thought, all interfering and firing and twitching. In a moment every fibre would tear, he felt, his whole body go limp; but then, some control came returning, and he could move again. His legs were like bags of water with pegs at the end which he might turn and balance on if he threw them rightly.

Then he could hear again and Torus said, "[—the roof. We must get closer. There is a service lift ahead.]"

They were inside a building, he remembered, but how did it rain indoors? He saw a wide corridor, black all around, the scent of burnt fabric and hair, like that time Tanwen flew into a rage over Rita's insult and didn't know Runa was standing beside her, and the smell … They turned a corner. Apollo had water running down his snout; he was straining to pull him farther. He would move faster: that would help; he had the strength to do it, he knew, and if only he could reach his legs and move them—

Apollo said, "[Which way?]" The corridor split in every direction, connected to every floor in the building.

Torus said, "[Forward. They are coming. Ready fire.]"

He felt the Team Omega troops appear before they turned the corner: the lead trooper threw a Poké ball, and a Zapdos flew out: Apollo let go his arm. He slumped down, as Torus stood over, tried to blow it all away; but the mist was weak, and the pain grew stronger. That clone, flying at them—it would not want to be there, if it understood the thing; and it would do nothing if the man dropped the ball, only fly off down the halls. Apollo glowed very bright, but it wouldn't help—dozens between them, Moltres, Zapdos, stolen Tyranitar and Salamence and Hydreigon: all waiting in the balls, he saw, none of them understanding. But there was water all around them in the pipes, he felt. The Tyranitar up front was charging forward, and the Zapdos behind was about to throw lightning, and Apollo wouldn't help; but there was water, and there the Tyranitar was charging slowly.

He reached out: the ceiling and walls about him burst, and the water followed his arm to shoot off down the hall. The Zapdos discharged and the bolt bounced around it, went back into the humans and Pokémon as they swept away, down the hall and round the corner.

The two looked at him, as though it were done—didn't they see that Salamence on the belt in the hallway? But it fell off, washed away with the water. He fell to his hands; the pain swelled again, up his neck, poured out onto the floor. Oh … but Runa would be ashamed of him, being filthy like that, failing to control himself. She would say that perhaps he'd feel better, not eating; and then he'd feel sick for days, even if he ate not a thing. They pulled at him, and he apologised, didn't hear what they said. But he was light again, now, almost floating, and Apollo pulled him, he felt, as if he drifted, as if he only needed direction. Finally they let go and he lay out on a cold floor. Then the pain returned again, and he could not turn his head, and his face again seemed to be burning, whilst near him he heard their voices.

"[Maternity leave. S'all I'm saying.]"

"[The good midwife will meet us above. He must reach Castelia quickly.]"

A sign on the wall said, Capacity 4500 Kilogrammes, with a picture of eight little Metagross and a Metagross leg beneath it.

"[I'll bake him a cake. What's wrong with him?]"

"[I will explain it in a paper. Our friends are aware and will create a cover. There are eighty-five soldiers and two hundred fifty-two Pokémon on the roof. Ignore them. Protect Shadow. If a ball reaches him, he may not survive. We must reach the open sky.]"

The door opened, and Apollo flew out all in fire; and such a wave of pain now was growing—he would split in half, surely—all of it out his mouth again as he fell, running down his face. And then he was off the ground entirely, only Torus's hand beneath, covered in wet: a Shadow Ball about to explode in his face.

But that was the sky, flashing brightly; that was a trainer on a Pokémon. Something red rushed past; Red, then a heat and a fire, a trail of light burnt in vision. It began to rain indoors again. Some glass blew out; he touched the ground, was in the air again; now the air grew colder. Everything made a terrific noise, and someone cried out about a slicer. Those were Team Omega's special balls which caught through everything. If it touched him he would lose Runa; it was horrible, he said; but it stopped in the air, and flew to pieces.

That was the lobby: this was the overhang. The stars were all dancing in different colours. One in the distance grew large, whipped past them: something in black and dark blue with red underneath. A great bolt landed near them, might have blown things out, but there were no more things to break. Now the cold was on his face, the water reaming off—and now he would faint, he told Torus. But he must not, Torus said, not yet; and it was wretched to faint, wretched, all laid out like a bag of water, and when Runa was most depending. Lightning struck twice beside them, and for a moment it was day, a fine day with showers, the sort where Runa curled them up in her bag under a tree and only waited out the storm, sometimes for hours. If he slept now, perhaps Runa would come—but that was wretched, and he ought not to disappoint: he ought to give his best. Raising his arm, he would make her very proud, would prove himself loyal, as Apollo said. His arm fell; but perhaps it was enough. Even if he failed, Runa would give him that, his arm. She would touch it warmly as she sat near; but she was far away, now, miles away in the storm.

Someone called out, a very loud man, and fire passed over, and a wave of water: he fell onto his back, and banged his head, fell onto Torus and the cold wet stone. Torus felt it sharply but didn't cry—not quite pain, but pain at a distance. Apollo grabbed the arm which moved, as if to touch but not to pull. They had not reached the edge—did they need to reach the edge?—and the Omegas were all around them, throwing Pokémon, throwing, and Runa was far away. They would use the slicers, take away Runa; and then they'd change him so he didn't love her, and she didn't love him.

But now a light flashed above them and everything flew back: all the air sighed and tumbled away the bad humans, some all the way to the edge's barrier. Torus flew away into the air on Apollo, and now everything was weightless again, all full of air—all but that knot which remained in the middle. All the bolts were flying past now, all landing behind. And Mewtwo looked very stern, and raised his arms, and they rose higher, away from the people, away from the dripping stone.

That was Gaia, above, and Runa approaching; and now he was fainting away before they could reach him, but it was all right, Torus said. And wouldn't it be a thing, if Runa had a case of the Clefairy, and became herself a Mewtwo? For purple was a lovely colour, and he had very smooth hips like a kimono girl.

Mewtwo looked at him, and the mist fell thick and black.

* * *

He was getting ready to hatch, he thought.

To hatch, he thought, into a Dratini, legs and wings and arms all missing—that was how it felt. He was lying flat on a surface, his back spread out like butter, all his limbs melted into him, turned to Muk. But no, he felt; they were there, but only attached, dead lying next to his body. That could happen, couldn't it, parts of one's body disconnecting from the brain, a sort of permanent paralysis as some humans had? It must have been some terrible accident, something so sudden he didn't remember, and now they would never move again, lying on a bed for the rest of his life.

For it was a bed, he thought, or at any rate it was padded; not so soft as in a hotel, as Runa sometimes arranged for him, when, she said, he flew too long and deserved a rest. His back always hurt more than Gaia's—wasn't built for his unusual build, she'd say. Now he may never fly again—perhaps his wings were missing, frozen and dropped off? But he felt them by his sides: only numb, as though he lay for a very long time.

Something was beeping nearby him. There was something on his stomach which he could feel as he breathed, which made him feel tight in the middle. A harness? No, that wasn't it. All along his body there were little tense points, his neck, his wrists (he could feel them now). There was something in his nose, touching his face; he couldn't quite open his eyes. Were they covered by something? He couldn't tell.

But Team Omega, he thought—their scientists. This was a lab: he was on a table. The beeping grew faster. Had they captured him? taken him apart, ready for cloning? Would they send another Shadow off to Runa and use him as an agent, destroy them from inside? He had to move, get active—spill out on the floor, anything; but something held him in place, prevented him from tearing whatever bindings, though they hardly seemed fit to restrain him. He lay still; for whether they cut him open or not, he wasn't ready to move yet, he understood, would only hurt himself. And Runa was there, had helped him to escape, he thought; had helped him when they left the tower, riding Gaia, so how was he captured again? Did Team Omega really have that power, only waiting for the moment? She had come to touch him just as he was fainting, and now he lay out alone in a dark room. Surely she would be there, if she was safe … but she was, he thought. He couldn't say how, but he felt that she was very near.

There were patterns of light like water on the ceiling. He heard a soft whirring, a trickle. Perhaps he may turn his head slowly, he thought, and no force would try to stop him—ah! He had lain still for a very long time. But that, he could see, was a tank nearby him—the same from the Black Tower. Then he was captured, he thought … But no, he saw, the tank was different, and hadn't the other been destroyed? Torus would not be sloppy. And this tank, too, had a thing inside it … Presently he made it out. It was the embryo, but not the same; or the same, but grown much larger. It had been about the size of his hand: this was half as long as his arm. The limbs were all formed and grown thick, the tail also, its skinny arms folded across itself—sleeping, he thought, dreaming as Torus said. They had saved it, then; carried it away inside of him, as Torus said, its vessel. He had gotten away to Castelia. Then this was the place, the lab in Viola Tower, he thought, lead by Mr. Medivici. Team Omega's plan was beaten: the mission succeeded, and Runa was proud, very proud, as Apollo said. And they saved the poor thing, he thought, the little Mewtwo, whom they would have made into a miserable slave—doubly miserable, he thought, in never knowing a better life, never knowing how wretched was its condition. He and it both were recovering, now separate, and would go on to a happy life. And perhaps Runa was here, only slept nearby; he looked around the room to find her.

Across the room was a fancy armchair, out of place for the laboratory; and sitting in the chair with one crossed leg was Mewtwo, hands folded at the mouth, watching him. He was so tired, he felt, that it was a moment before the anxiety reached him: the great psychic, he thought, only sitting and watching, with no one else around them. Oh, where was Runa? Mewtwo looked away at the tank. But the immense psychic had saved them, he and Torus and Apollo (he remembered clearly now—how helpless they were!), threw back the Omega soldiers long enough to lift them away from the Tower. He must have carried them all the way to Castelia City; watched over the surgery (for there had to be that); kept guard of the embryo ever since. How long had it been?

Mewtwo stood and walked toward the tank. He looked at the embryo with folded arms.

[I was prepared to let it die.]

That was Mewtwo speaking, he thought. He had only heard him speak the once, just before the mission: he didn't like people. Mewtwo looked at him critically, he thought; or perhaps it was only his expression.

[You reminded me of what I had nearly forgotten, that the circumstances of birth are irrelevant. It was already born when you found it.]

He tried to speak, but his tongue felt swollen, and his throat was raw and dry. Mewtwo stood very close to the tank and looked.

[Now I am become two.]

Somewhere behind a door slid open; and just by her feet he knew it was her, Runa running toward him! "I'm sorry," she said; she laid hands on his head. "I was out getting water—I'm sorry." She kissed his forehead, and he couldn't move, could with difficulty see her face. "Shadow? Do you recognise me?" But he couldn't yet move; he could only look at her, blinking, and twitch his arm.

[He will recover. He requires only rest, and care.]

Runa put a jug of water next to his head and fixed a tube for him to draw it through his mouth. It was very cold, he thought, but just as well: she leaned over him, kissed his forehead again, touched hers to his, and he only drank, would burn up in a minute, he felt, if he didn't. But the wires, he thought; the heartbeats. Runa had to hear her effect on him. Yet she only took a cloth, dabbed cold water on his head, and said:

"I'm so proud of you, Shadow. I only want you to relax, now. Just rest, and let us take care of you."

His face had to look like a beet, surely; he tried to move, to cover it, yet his arm wouldn't budge more than an inch; but she seemed not to care, only had that look, as if to say, I know you don't like this; I know you don't like touching, people fussing over you; but it's for your own sake that I do. She kissed his forehead again—unbearable! And Mewtwo was watching it all, looking at them; probably watched his dreams about Runa, if he had any: impossible to hide from the world's most powerful psychic.

Runa didn't really know what she was doing, he thought, as she dabbed his face again—but why should he think it? The cloth made no difference with all the things attached to him, but it was to make him feel better—to make Runa feel better, perhaps, for how helpless she had to feel, watching him below on Black Tower, then the surgery: as helpless, perhaps, and far worse, as to watch the battle in Silver Town turn desperate. So she leaned over, said she was proud. If he could only raise his hand up to touch her—if he could fall asleep, and wake to find her with him, sleeping with her head on his side—he would want nothing more: he would take that before some wings or legs. But they moved a little already. Runa said to lay still; and she would be right there with him, she said.

"Mewtwo carried you all the way to Castelia," Runa said. "That was almost a week ago. He helped to remove the embryo. If not for him … Torus says they couldn't have saved you without him. But now you're going to make a full recovery. They saved your life, both of them."

Mewtwo looked away across the room. The psychic recluse had been amongst humans for over a week, now, since before the mission, to days in a lab, working with surgeons and doctors—which sort, in another life, had created him for just the sort of purpose Omega imagined. But not all humans were like that, he had to know; Mewtwo learned that after meeting Red, they said; and Runa surely only proved it again.

[Indeed. I did hate humans, once, not by incapacity but unwillingness to understand them.] It seemed to be only for him, as Runa didn't look. [Could I possibly witness such thinking as yours and not find falsified again my early misconception? I hate those who would use others, or use force to control them: this is not Runa. Her only use of force, I have seen, is in service to others, or thanks.]

He could imagine it now: Runa rushing up to Mewtwo as they arrived in Castelia, throwing her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek, as every other human besides Red kept their distance. And as if the psychic almost wanted him to know the feeling, he felt a sort of pressure in his skin, a winding up inside, like something which wanted to rush forward and close a distance which ought to be closed already. It was not simply his imagination, he thought: the image was almost like a touch, overpowering his sight until it passed. What was Mewtwo trying to show him? But he couldn't follow—something far above his capacity to see, his mind too simple. (But still, Mewtwo looked at him oddly.)

"Are you all right, Shadow?" Runa said, as he blinked at her. "Do you need anything?"

[He is tired.] Mewtwo moved away from the tank, picked up some sort of scarf from the armchair. [He will not mind my saying that he does not want you to worry, nor to feel out of place in staying. I, however, do so feel. I will take my leave now of Unova. Torus will ensure its proper delivery. I will contact you whenever seems necessary.]

Runa looked nearly shocked. "You're leaving?" she said. (And why didn't they discuss things thoroughly when he was out?) "Aren't you taking him with you? He's … Aren't you going to teach him?"

But Mewtwo smiled, he thought, and began to fluff his scarf.

[Had this occurred when I was younger, I might have used every power to claim its guardianship. Today, I neither pretend to any such claim, nor such wisdom that my presence would benefit. Do you suppose that a human growing up isolated, or among detached and hostile guardians, will not suffer in their development? In psychics, such isolation is even more harmful, as my own example should attest. I am as I am not by a severe nature so much as a lack of exposure in infancy: my withdrawal is not so much inborn as born of early negative experience. I am interested, then, as it informs my condition, to observe how I might have developed in different circumstances—say among benevolent caretakers, in contact with human society. Tell me, Runa, for I have heard your speech, yet also seen your dreams and thinking: What do you believe a trainer is for?]

This was on the spot, he thought—Mewtwo questioning Runa, having her defend her philosophy—and what was Mewtwo now saying? that he was a poor example, and would ruin his double's development, even after years of foresight into his own self? What did they, what did Runa, know about raising a Mewtwo?

Runa held his arm, looking up at the psychic, and said, "To help raise Pokémon—to help them grow."

Mewtwo folded his arms. [So to help them mature is the trainer's purpose. But maturity is difficult. Why force it on others?]

"Because," Runa said, "unless they're mature, and have those chances, they'll never become their own person."

[That is the end of it. What is the middle? What makes one their own person?]

Runa hesitated, he saw; it was Mewtwo, after all, debating her. "Choosing their own purpose," she said.

[Indeed.] Mewtwo did not unfold his arms. [And what quality permits one a choice?]

And Runa thought, and said, "Sapience."

[So the full argument is?]

And that was all it was, he thought, Mewtwo leading Runa to a conclusion which she already knew, which Torus had already written with her, and Runa saw it: she became perfectly comfortable again. "All Pokémon are sapient, like humans," she said, "which means they have the same power to choose their own purpose, and no power to choose someone else's. It's a trainer's job—their chosen purpose—to help Pokémon mature and discover theirs, but never to choose it for them. That's my understanding."

Mewtwo did not unfold his arms, but smiled; and it did not, he thought, look so sinister.

[Perhaps if this occurred some years from now, I would entrust it with other humans; perhaps if this occurred some years ago, I would entrust it with only myself. Today, I trust you, whose understanding precedes her kind. So the son of Shadow, perhaps, will grow to meet your philosophy, and advance it.]

And Runa—for she forgot about him for a moment, he knew, and who wouldn't?—she squeezed his hand and said, "Shadow? What do you say?" But what could he possibly say? Mewtwo was crazy, thinking anyone else could care for it, a psychic which beyond its earliest infancy would already exceed even Torus, at least in magnitude. But Runa held his arm, and he knew her meaning: think of Leo, she meant; think of Émi, and Hessie, and Ken. True enough that raising them together had become their closest experience, spread out as it was over more than a year … and in a way, with Mewtwo's reasoning, this was even closer, somehow born of her philosophy. For wasn't it the perfect proof (and this was not using, just an effect of giving the right care) if people saw the clone grow up as powerful as Mewtwo but, being born in a place with compassion and allowed to grow freely, never suffering the bad start that the other had, only grew to be loving and compassionate himself? They would say her method was extraordinary, that it tempered—so they said—the most vicious-hearted of all Pokémon, which of course was nonsense, seeing that little thing. It was only the people around, the wretched scientists, who had affected Mewtwo's mind, suspended his development, from which it took years to recover; then just to be near Runa, growing up, the clone would he happier, all of them helping—little he could do, of course, besides simple chores, but Torus would train its mind and ability; Gaia would give exercise, and self-discipline; and Runa, with her unbounded compassion, the thing Mewtwo only missed when he was born, what he as much said he wished he'd known, and wanted for it, would beget compassion in it likewise. It was ridiculous, still; it was a clone of Mewtwo, none of them fit to raise it; but Runa looked at him, and what else could he say? He tugged her finger with his claw.

Mewtwo was taking his chance to leave, now, without Runa's thanking him, but Runa saw and rushed over. And only Runa, he thought, could be that way, jumping up and kissing such a mon on the jaw. She said something he didn't hear, and Mewtwo listened, as if to amuse her; and then using his hand to lower hers, he left with his scarf curled round him.

[I wish you both happy transformations,] he heard. [And no doubt that you may fail to change it; but no doubt that motherhood will change you.]


	22. Level 70 - Black City (Scene 3)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

The lab was in the medical research wing of Viola Tower, the great heart of the Medivici family in Castelia City. It was lucky, he thought—and strange, if Nikolai Black was a friend—that such similar facilities existed so close together, both here and in Black City. There were only a few places in the world (that they knew about, he thought; nobody knew about the lab which created Mewtwo until he destroyed it) that could have safely removed the embryo so soon—and another few hours, Torus said, and just to save one of them may have killed the other.

But that was the Medivici family's business, research, and such incredible feats and pressure were perhaps only regular to them; and lucky too (or perhaps it was not all luck) that its head, Raphael Medivici, a distant relative or such of Runa's, and an eminent scientist in his own right, was friend enough to give them not only his help but his home as well, and resolve all their difficulties at once.

—Stay as long as you like. I mean that. (He was always very nice; a little sad, he seemed, but he smiled.) Everything in this tower is at your and your friends' disposal. I'm happy to host you all here indefinitely; nothing could make me happier.

For how long? he asked. Runa said several months at least. He would recover before then, was already in a few days able to move his toes, his wings, now, as Torus carried him through the tower—for it was easy, it seemed, to float a Dragonite in the air when one wasn't shielding a team of three from twenty psychics simultaneously—only limited by the long incision, which needed its time to heal. No, it wasn't him who grounded the team, and prevented them moving about any longer, as Hestia grumbled: it was the clone, which needed a welcoming place, close to but protected from human society, for all the months or possibly years it took to reach maturity. Hence the offer of Raphael Medivici: a little Mewtwo running about would need his space, and here it was, full run of a wing of the tower.

"[It's going to be so much fun living here!]" Leo said, following just beside him—"[we're going to find so much to do!]" (The Lucario had already discovered Mr. Medivici's library, and fallen afoul his Serperior for touching the books too roughly.)

"[And lots of friends, too,]" Émilie said, floating behind.

"[Oh, piles of them, I'm sure,]" Apollo said, grinning with his arms behind him.

And didn't they all have better to do than simply escort him from lab to lounge? But Gaia, walking just beside him, ready perhaps to catch his fall if Torus lost hold for an instant, seemed to answer for them; for that he was a little crazy, to risk his life saving some strange Pokémon, they already knew, but what then were they if they wouldn't spare seconds for family?

It was just a few floors for the residence, a small fraction of the tower, but that was already larger than most Goldenrod penthouses, and here were many empty rooms they might use. (It had been designed, Runa said quietly, with a big family in mind.) Stay, Raphael had said, and so they would: it would become another headquarters in the war, like Indigo Plateau; champions would be in and out every day; and the clone (and it needed a name, Runa said, something normal, which assumed no direction) would always be well protected, would always have both of them near. For he would never again take a mission, Runa begged him.

—Let Gaia take them. Please.

It terrified her, he knew, his condition after the tower; Apollo tried to watch, he said, but felt too sick to continue, turned away from the glass, but Runa never left his side, wouldn't remove her head from him even during the operation, a horrid thing with all sorts of guts coming out, lasting twenty hours, even with Torus and Mewtwo controlling it and several human nurses and surgeons helping. The clone had grown so entangled in just three days, clotted with fibres and fat all around it as the membrane tore and lost its effectiveness, and hundreds of blood vessels spontaneously appeared to feed it and keep it living, all now to be unravelled and replaced with surrogates—and then, once removed, all the restoration, every nerve and fibre which they'd cut reconnected, all through the cavern which extended halfway through his body. Apollo seemed afraid to touch him, now, as if he'd split at the slightest prick; Runa scarcely once let him go. They were both of them very sorry, she and Apollo, said more than once that they didn't know Torus had planned it. Torus had wanted him for his memories of the new team, Runa said, in case the clone was awake and needed persuasion. —I'd never have agreed, Runa said; He's quite mad, said Apollo. Still, he thought, he didn't blame Torus—who knew it, of course, looking at him; with the worst of it behind him, and the very worst gone in a blink without dreaming, he was glad that he could help, coming off more or less intact in the process. Torus said the clone's growth was rapid but slowing, would soon steady off, as Omega had managed to accelerate the early process, but never got so far as the rest: it would be some years, he figured, before it reached Mewtwo's size. And was it healthy? he asked. Torus said there were few points of comparison, but Mewtwo saw nothing out of order, nothing at least that he mentioned. They would gain a great battler, Hestia said—a new friend! said Leo. He didn't mind psychics at all; Ken was not so cheerful, turning ornery again, barely recovered since his evolution.

"[And the gym's rotten,]" Ken said. "[It's not even a dojo! It's just got old Pokémon inside.]"

"[If it's training you want, I'd be happy to help you,]" Hestia said. "[Till then, stop whining when there's others worse off than you.]" And Ken pouted his lip, and lagged behind them, but said nothing.

They entered an elegant lounge, he saw, all dark and red and green, with couches and tables on every wall, as if they expected a large function at any time, with windows drawn but, so he expected, looking out over the night city skyline which mostly obstructed the sea. The ceilings weren't as high as the Pondelore estate, hardly twelve feet per floor; when they'd arrived before the mission, he had had to mind the lights; but on the research floors making up most of the tower, and where the few thousand scientists and researchers worked, it was often two or three stories together, with the last several floors a giant lobby for the Pokémon Centre and convalescence home, whose gym would soon stink with Ken and Hestia's fire. No doubt he'd explore the whole, eventually, and only come back to the household wing, and sit on the carpets and do nothing.

Runa said, "Okay, Torus."

There was a sort of raised mattress put into the room, clearly built for him, covered in padding with the head raised a little, onto which Torus now laid him slowly. Oh! he thought, it was very soft. Spoiling luxury, he would call it, if not for the days or weeks he would need for resting.

Ken said, "[But it's rotten is all.]"

"[But you'll meet … lots of new people,]" he said. And why should only being carried by others knock so much wind from him?

"All right, this is Shadow's space, now," Runa said, looking at Ken and Leo—"everyone make sure he isn't bothered, okay? You'll see him later. Here—thanks for coming." She let go Apollo—she was in the habit of kissing every Pokémon she saw these days! But that wasn't fair; they were old friends. Apollo squeezed his tail, as if to say goodbye, and left with Gaia, who stood longer but didn't look back. They were off on a mission together, Gaia said, hardly apart it seemed. Was it very dangerous? he wondered. Runa called it routine. He felt as if everyone was moving on: all becoming true champions, saving the world; and he would lie in his bed growing soft, unable in the end even to battle.

Torus accepted Runa's thanks and left. [You must remain in this bed for seven days,] he said. [You will be out of it before the clone wakes.]

A lot of bother he became, he thought, as Runa put her bag on the nearby table—a bother, and an injustice. There was a war going on; every day the champions put themselves in harm's way, or worse, open to capture, as they fought Team Omega, tried to track down their cells and groups and destroy their hidden bases; yet here he'd be lying and sipping sodas, only resting as his team went out to fight much bigger battles. Perhaps if there were more reports, he'd feel differently, less useless for taking a convalescence; but while Omega made the screens now, sometimes, and their radio transmissions streamed all across the world, no one they met outside the compact seemed to feel themselves much affected. Only with a personal loss would people take notice; and then, he expected, they would ask why nothing was done, why the Diet or the champions were so slow to act, or so ineffectual in stopping them. That report from the Indigo Conference—idiot talking heads, Dyna would say—called Manda disinterested, always away and not devoting time to the good champion's role of exhibition matches and autographing, only sweeping in as she did on the last day for the defence, and leaving before the closing ceremony: unprofessional, they said! They didn't know this was just before the attack on Black City. Why on earth did the compact keep it all quiet? Only to prevent the panic wrought by just that sort of useless commentary. But if they were totally open, Runa said, Team Omega would succeed in bringing terror, and would recruit many more to their side, as all their efforts to broadcast proved they wanted, so that talking much about it helped them; and besides, all the politicians knew, and the trainers knew most of it, so wasn't it better they didn't report? … But wasn't that opposite, he thought, to Runa's way? Many people would want to help, if only they saw the true case clearly. Wouldn't they help at once if they knew? But spare them that, she said: let them be happy.

"You'll be up in no time, Shadow," Runa said. They were alone now, he saw, as she moved around him, fixing the edge of the blanket. His middle stuck up to about her height—and this was after the thing came out of him! after what Runa had said was a great loss of weight, all burned away in the clone's growth, surely the lightest he'd been since evolving. But the bed was raised at least two feet, he saw—at any rate, he hadn't grown thicker. Now Runa stood beside him.

"I know you feel like you're a burden," she said, touching him near the shoulder, "but you've done a bigger part than anyone. You saved the clone, and stopped Omega's plans, and now we've got back the momentum. You've earned the right to rest until it's all over … if only you'd take it."

In front of the others, she tried not to speak like that, for how much she knew it embarrassed him; but that this was her true feeling about him, and that the thought of his capture, which more so than any other mon (still her favourite, after all these years) she felt she wouldn't be able to bear, set his heart beating like a bug in water, his skin melting off like honey. And now he imagined (like a Dragonair again, all reserves failing), as she smiled at him, that any moment she'd curl up in the space beside him, head against his, and fall asleep—a hundred nights on a soft bed beside her. Hadn't he grown up at all since evolving? They had never left him, of course, such fantasies, but he'd only found a habit of getting stuck in, of caring for others and so putting himself aside—which now was forbidden, by Runa's will. Now Runa laid her hand on his nose, said not to worry about anything, and he felt the old thoughts reemerging; for suppose he took her hand now and, like that, simply kissed it, pressed it against his lip? Runa would have a few days to digest it with him apart and incapacitated. He was necessary, she'd reason, to help raise the clone to like people, and wasn't that a good example, a parent Pokémon who not only didn't hate humans, but loved them? How could she fail to forgive him, showing her when he was most vulnerable, as if to say he put his life in her hands? How could she possibly send him away?

Runa let go his hand and moved past his middle, and he turned and wiped his face in a pillow. He used to dream of Runa falling ill, her being in pain as he protected her—some love!—in the process of which she grew to love him. Now the tables were turned and he wished she would leave him, only wouldn't—oh! wouldn't touch him past the middle where he couldn't see. That was always worst, when he couldn't expect it; and then he would flinch, from Runa.

"I'm sorry," she said, but continued to touch, to trace the striation in his middle along which Torus had made the cut. "Do you feel any pain at all? Any tenderness?"

Was there pain? he thought. If there was it was smothered by the warmth spreading through him, a natural anaesthetic. Perhaps he winced: a little dull pain, as she pressed, but just a little. She said it was all right, that it was just his body stitching together: in a few weeks he'd be as if it never happened, not a trace or scar, of course. Pokémon did not scar like humans, otherwise every one of the whole species of battlers would be scratched and burned in the most horrible ways—something about the skin holding to its original form, as set by evolution, whereas humans, who only grew smoothly, often bore little marks which lasted for life, depending on how they were struck. But this idea of permanent harm, that a human couldn't fully recover, but in fact wore down as time passed, grew weaker even decades before their death, unlike an old mon who kept strong till the end—who invented that? Was it Arceus? And the humans, who had powers exceeding Pokémon in many ways, whose powers built slowly and then, just as their experiences amounted to something, they began to lose their faculties … whereas Pokémon, who reached a plateau early, and kept their powers until the very end, how many made even the smallest use of it, and didn't squander it in the wilds or in comfort?

Runa was searching her bag, now—what was she after? She took out a sort of lotion, placed a large spot of it on her hands. Oh, he thought, but she didn't mean—

"Here," she said, standing pressed against his middle—"this should take away the pain."

She began to apply the cream to the fold, and he turned and bit his claw. But this was agony, he thought, far worse than usual, to have Runa touch him so tenderly. She hadn't been like this since he evolved, since he used to blister on beaches in Johto, and not having had such experience lately, his body forgot how to bear it. Hadn't he changed at all? Lying in a cage in the Corner, rationalising about how evolution would save him or how he'd sublimate his sickness, he was an idiot—and now? He only persuaded himself that he grew wiser; only avoided Runa entirely, which he did not use to do, and hurt her feelings, when this was how she felt all along, more tenderly for him than anyone. Now she stood on the edge and leaned over him, laying over the part below his sight, continued to stroke, and surely he would cry out; he bit his hand. She was nearly done, she said, stretching to reach his middle … She dropped back, on her feet again, moved to the other side, and he adjusted his cushions as if to say, It's nothing to me. Three years with Runa, he thought, and this was what his strength amounted to: hiding his face and gnawing claws off. Torus looked at him, he knew, and thought him pathetic; Gaia thought him mad; he hadn't made the least effort or progress in approaching Runa, finding how to confess, besides something wild like simply kissing her. But Runa was nearly done. Was he warm enough? she asked. Far too warm, he thought, to do other than nod.

Someone was coming by the hardwood floor of the hall, then onto the carpet: Raphael Medivici, he saw.

He felt suddenly very exposed, sprawled out as he was, on display for any to see, and with Runa rubbing lotion on him. She stood up quickly, wiped her hands on a tissue; but didn't the man say this was their home also, now?

"I'm sorry," Runa said, as if in explanation. "Shadow doesn't like people fussing over him. He feels like he's being a burden, even though he's not." And she touched his side, as if to prove by his flinch that he argued.

"Not at all," Raphael said. The man seemed different without his white coat, he thought; standing some distance away with his hands in his pockets, it seemed this was only his life outside work, walking and looking at things in his home. One had the idea, seeing certain humans, that they were secretly psychic, saw everything—Raphael always had that sort of look, as if nothing surprised him, or seemed to affect. "It's my pleasure to host you, for as long as you need."

"He'll need some pampering, of course," Runa said, smiling. "He's got to get his strength back. He's lost a hundred pounds since getting here, you know, between everything that's happened—you're highly nutritious," she said, laughing and patting his stomach, at which he couldn't help but cover his face, exactly as she wanted, he knew. For if he only lay about and ate sweets as he recovered, she meant, she would not even be disappointed, for he ought not to mind his appearance. But this was a chance to keep it off for good—nearly two hundred pounds heavier than he ought for his size, which was two hundred again over normal, from his height—to lose that ability which hardly helped him, and perhaps gain another, better one, the Inner Focus perhaps which was latent in all Dragonite. Was it possible, however, that he affected the embryo? that the Thick Fat, the Walrein's inheritance, somehow got into it as abilities could, and turned the poor thing into a freak of proportions? The membrane Torus used was all swollen and clotted, sucked up the fat into raw energy: surely there might be a trace. But it looked normal—as normal, he thought, as a human-engineered Pokémon embryo could.

Raphael looked about for a moment, and said, "Your new charge, we figure, will wake in about ten days. Mewtwo's advice was light enough that we don't imagine it being dangerous. He said you and Shadow would be chiefly responsible for it, with Torus and Gaia helping."

"Yes," Runa said—"Torus definitely, and Gaia if she's not busy. But I don't know how quickly he'd grow, I mean, how long we'd have to …"

"However long it takes," Raphael said. "As I say, my home is yours. It's the least I can do for the Pondelores. I'm just happy someone will make use of the place. My question, what I came to ask, is what arrangements we might make—things to bring in, construction, and so on. Donna won't be able to rest until she knows how many people are staying. If you have a minute?"

Runa said that she'd be back later with dinner, only to rest, and kissed his hand—anything she liked, he thought. But a few weeks ago, he thought (and he would not sleep), Raphael Medivici had received a call from Iris, asking if the champions might organise a mission from his tower; now he turned the whole of it over to them, let Runa's whole team move in for months or longer, and only said he was glad to be helpful. Now the compact had great plans: Apollo, gushing over him in the lab, mentioned the compact's plans for the tower; a new headquarters in Unova, a constant presence to fight Omega; a place to rehabilitate recovered Pokémon, in the centre downstairs; a Professor Juniper, and jobs and living spaces. And the clone—did they mean to monitor it, get involved? Mewtwo would never allow it, who had a bad start after all precisely from that sort of professional distance, and would trust Runa to assert herself even against—There was someone at the hallway door.

Wasn't there someone? he thought, for he was sure that he heard … There they were, Raphael's Serperior, Madonna—Donna, he called her—quite as ornate as the rooms she cared for with her little pearl necklace on; and behind her came the resident Victini, Titian, or was it Tizian? flying in and bounding over, come to meet the new lodger, as it were.

Madonna said, "[I'm given to understand that you'll be extending your time with us indefinitely.]"

The lady Serperior had taken it upon herself to hostess while the champions stayed, tending to all in a common way, as if she lead some reception party; now, he felt, it was as if for the first time she really assessed him as a person, and began to calculate his needs and duties.

"[M— Mr. Medivici said we could stay for a while,]" he said.

"[Of course,]" Madonna said. "[The Master extends his courtesy to you for as long as you desire. You need only tell us what you require, and we shall employ all our means to provide it, as any Pondelore would for the Master.]"

He remembered a Blissey in Saffron City, shaking her little lace sleeves. But the Pokémon Centre below, he thought, was really better suited for all he needed; and it wasn't dripping in so much luxury, which seeing this Serperior he now began to feel was bound to affect his character. "[What about the Centre downstairs?]" he said. "[I don't want to bother—]"

"[Nonsense,]" she said, looking down her nose at him a little severely. "[It is a principal part of Viola's business to care for injured Pokémon; and as both a veteran of war and a personal friend of the Medivicis, it is our privilege to tend you personally. You stay,]" she said, as if she thought he simply didn't understand her and needed some point explained to him, "[as a service rendered by the Master Medivici, which Miss Pondelore has accepted.]"

Well, he thought, that settled it; he lay back again on the bed. At that the little Victini leapt up and landed on his stomach, hardly weighed a thing. "[If there's anything you need,]" he said, vibrating, "[we can get it—like that!]"

"[Okay,]" he said, "[but I, I should just rest. Runa says I need to get my energy back.]"

"[I've got energy!]" the Victini said, bobbing up and down. "[Lots of energy! I can give you energy! You can fly, right? I can fly! Do you want to fly?]"

Madonna said, "[That's quite enough, Tiziano. He cannot leave this bed until he is healed, so he can hardly fly now, can he? No, rest is the best medicine, I think: rest, and herbal tea.]"

The Victini looked sad for a moment; then bouncing and landing on the floor with his hand raised high, he said, "[And lemonade—and cake! Lemonade fixes everything—and so does cake!]"

"[It does not,]" Madonna said, but the Victini already was flying away; and the Serperior, looking once back at him as if to say that such behaviour was not in fact tolerated, and that a certain pair of Runa's Pokémon had better not follow such examples, sparring all over the carpets, turned and left after him. And then he was alone, by himself in the room.

Runa had left him a stack of books within reach, if he should want them, magazines and novels and the like, but ever since the lab he felt that he hardly had energy to stay awake, let alone for extended thinking. This absurd project, to raise Mewtwo's clone—what was it? Not that Runa wouldn't do a wonderful job, the best possible guardian as Mewtwo himself determined, or that Torus wouldn't make a fine counterpart, build up its thinking; but Shadow, Raphael had said, him and Runa, Mewtwo wanted. Why him? What would he do? It was a joke to call him a father, a mother, anything of the sort; his contribution to Leonardo's development was to catch him when he ran along ridges and to introduce him to chocolate. The little Lucario was never going to battle, they knew now, nor fight at all outside a spar for exercise; and that was his fault, as usual.

—Do you like fighting? (He was never sure, with Leo, whether a question was off the cuff or the product of hours of thinking.)

—Oh, well … it's healthy, you know, to exercise.

—Yeah, but do you like it? Itself?

—I …. Not really.

—Oh. Well … good!

—Why good?

—I don't like it either! I hate fighting!

After that it was all over and Leonardo said he didn't want to be a champion, and Gaia never quite forgave them: every simple exercise became a chore and fresh persuasion, Leo inventing all sorts of lamentations and explanations to get out of it, that he would become a great chocolatier, or writer, or sculptor who punched such shapes out of rock as he liked. Gaia looked to them both and folded her arms—a Fighter who hated fighting, she said, was absolutely not what Runa meant by freedom. Yet the truth was that sparring wasted Leo—who, though he rarely acted it, was really the cleverest of all of them. He picked up a thing, turned it over, listened to Gaia's or Hestia's instruction and seemed to fail to understand it; and then, some time later when everyone had forgotten, he would turn around and try it from another angle and accomplish the thing at once. To this day they hadn't a shade of an idea how, once he understood that he may gain in strength from dark energy hitting him, he proceeded to stamp on his own foot and then let off a punch of such force it knocked Ken right out. Gaia said it was impossible; Hestia refused to see it; and Leonardo, for his part, never managed it again, didn't know what he had done except that he'd hurt Ken, which knowledge seemed enough to forget the secret. But he had a special quality: Runa brought it out in everyone. He hadn't yet worked out his kanji, true, his interests flipping again; but Runa would bring it out.

So what about a Mewtwo? he thought. A Mewtwo (for it was a general word, now, not only the one) was bound to surpass all of them, and quickly; and he would be naturally independent, as well, and probably resist direction. Aside from giving a safe environment, a crop of happy family experiences, perhaps there was little they could do. Perhaps that was enough, too; Mewtwo had learnt everything on his own, after all, inasmuch as being a Mewtwo. For psychic abilities, Torus was there; for other training, Gaia; Runa would see that every part of his character turned out rightly, and that he learnt to love and care for others; and he would be the embarrassing origin story by which the little Mewtwo gained a strong sense of humility, for what a low start it was. And surely there was a risk—seemed likely, in fact, even if the scientists said nothing—that his own ability, the Fat, somehow poisoned the poor thing, like a diet of only cream and cake. But how was it with humans? how did things inherit? he wondered. He had to open those books, eventually—it was never in the documentaries—learn about the real medical differences between humans and Pokémon, and how the embryos came about. And that he did not yet do it, he knew (hardly mature at all, only refusing to face up to things), was because he knew it would show up another difference between himself and Runa, something that further divided them, and revealed what he couldn't provide for her, but which any number of humans about her might, whom now he'd have to notice.

He turned a little on his side, then back again. Madonna was right that he wouldn't have energy to so much as stand for days, but neither would he sleep for more than a fraction, only staring … Still, he thought, he wouldn't beg for company. They were all very busy, and didn't need another chore.

Whatever was in the cream seemed to be taking effect, producing a cool sensation as of water evaporating on the skin; and presently the pain began to fade, though the underlying weakness remained. Was this how humans felt after every procedure, he thought, not having a Pokémon's healing factor? Or was it only that the procedure itself was so horrid, all the guts coming out, as Apollo said? (He did not mean every gut; it was only the embryo got very tangled in fibres, had to be unravelled by both Torus and Mewtwo working together.) At any rate he wouldn't let it affect him: it was his chance to get a running start in fitness, if he only checked his diet. Soon Runa would return with his meal, he knew, something very light and easy. Oh, he thought, did she mean to feed him?—all the others looking, perhaps, and what would Gaia say? (He could see her now, wringing a towel, trying to pretend she didn't look.) He would turn down everything but salads and sour creams; he would exercise daily and grow as fit as Lance's Dragonite before they left. Runa would sit beside him and, having spent his warmth in sweat and exertion, he would be quite unaffected … Madonna would be gnawing on the tables before the end, Ken and Leo tearing everywhere getting dizzy with Tizzy, Hestia trying to take over the place, Gaia to busy too help, and only Émilie being dependable. Runa would have little time for any of them, really, between so many roles and the clone on top.

Did Mewtwo really not mind leaving it? What did he do that was more important, vanishing into the world again? Runa was genuinely shocked; even she, who was at odds with her family, thought it unthinkable to leave one's blood, an identical twin no less. He would make a poor environment, he said, lacking Runa's warmth and compassion, and being near humans would temper him—presumably the thoughts of all Castelia could be heard by such a psychic as Mewtwo, and without growing up in it, one could never acclimate, so Mewtwo was really thinking for himself. Perhaps it was genetic, too, something that would come out in the clone; or perhaps it was only bad circumstance, as Mewtwo suspected. Yet the psychic was found by Omega living near Cerulean City, some hidden underground home: he was not a total stranger to human civilisation, but chose to live closer, sometimes, as if he tried to acclimate; and after living so on and off for years now, he'd never harmed another creature who hadn't hurt him. Perhaps the clone would be more gregarious, then, and take to humans; perhaps he'd like to see all human cities. Another Mewtwo, he thought, growing up in Castelia! The humans would have to get used to that, if he was going to do more than hide away. Might he help them against Team Omega? Or would he perhaps think (but this wasn't possible) that he owed them something, his creators? Perhaps he would hear the radio transmissions, and sneak out to meet them, to gauge their thinking, and they caught him and put on a collar … But he was getting worked up over nothing, he thought, and failing to trust in Runa. For she would pick up the clone and carry it, like a Dratini in her arms, saying, I'm sorry if buying things was dull; and if he could perceive Runa's quality as a little Dratini, how much easier for a psychic!

But was that her? he thought. He listened. For a moment it seemed that she was in the room, as if she crept in when she thought him sleeping to sit at the foot of his bed; but the room was quite empty, and why would she lie? Yet the feeling persisted a minute longer, as if, he felt, she looked at him and he felt it, or she moved toward him, her image flicking through as from a distance.

[She is thinking about you.]

Oh!—but that was Mewtwo's voice, he thought; and there, in the same doorway by which the others had left, stood Mewtwo, looking inside, just landed perhaps on the balcony. But he had gone away days ago, he said, left Castelia when he woke in the lab! Someone would have said if he was still near—did Runa know? He tried to sit up; but Mewtwo raised his hand, to stay, he knew, and stepped into the room.

This had to be among the stranger moments of his life, he thought: sprawled belly-up on a giant lounger as Mewtwo took a chair and looked at him. What could such a psychic want with him? Mewtwo only looked with his chin on his hands. He seemed reluctant; didn't want to come, perhaps, but felt he ought, something remaining to say. Was it about the clone? Perhaps something was wrong with it; or perhaps Mewtwo had some episode in his development which they ought to know was coming. Mewtwo looked at the ceiling.

[You are an unusual mon. More unusual than you know, for how things have evolved. I feel that I cannot go in good conscience without some private remarks. Torus disagrees; he would prefer that I tell you nothing, but leave it for your own discovery. This thinking is typical of urban psychics, long since washed of moral sensitivity, long used to rationalising their inaction. I agree that one ought to direct their own actions, except where they would suffer injury from another's clumsy effects, which other had failed to disclose them. Such a case becomes you, seeing your psychology. I make no apology for your present pain: you volunteered your body, and such pain you could have expected. But what pain may follow, you could not. So I feel that I owe you this service, as without it you would suffer needlessly, and on my account.]

Mewtwo looked away, as if he composed his words; and was it possible that he was a little embarrassed, this great psychic, who was, perhaps he thought, most responsible for it all, having failed to obstruct Omega? He remembered Rita's talk on the Butterfree effect, when she tried to explain how Runa finding her was destiny—Omega's leader imagined an army of Mewtwo, which (to everyone's surprise) lead to their capturing him, and his escape, but too late to prevent some loss of material, and so the invasion of the Black Tower in order to manufacture more of it; also to word spreading, to the Lugia's talk, to Torus's mission, and to him going along; and from there, to the clone going inside him, and to him going into surgery, and now, to Mewtwo coming along, to say that something had gone wrong with him. He felt cold at the word: discovery; for there was something wrong with him, after the surgery, Mewtwo meant—something very grave, and serious, if he and Torus had debated it. Was he going to die, the wrong thing cut, and now Torus didn't want him to know? He would be happier, he felt, not to know. But Mewtwo looked at him, as if to shut him up.

[My creation, as you know, was a many-laboured thing. To produce from Mew my different form required not a little genetic engineering. In that, as in many spheres, humans are not adept—by which I mean not that my creators failed, but that they were not subtle. My powers are quiescent _in vitro_, not _in vivo_. The clone is affected by its time in you, but not so much as you are affected by it.]

But then—what Mewtwo came to tell him, to break the news—he was ill: something really had happened to him from carrying it, and now—Mewtwo held up his hand to quit.

[Listen closely, as you will wish to remember. The psychic power originates in the brain and nerves. Mind is a part of the psychic power, present in every thinking creature: the act of thinking itself is psychic action, its most fundamental behaviour. In most species, this action produces a wake, projected as like waves in a fluid, washing away to no purpose. These wakes being part of natural physics, albeit by forces unknown to human theorists, all matter may be affected by the psychic power, even that which is dead and incapable of thinking. But nothing is more so affected than nervous matter, which acts both as receptor and conduit. In some species—what you call psychics—certain structures and patterns in the brain are particularly resonant, so that the wakes of mind become sensible. Such psychics then learn to affect their wakes, as like destructive and constructive interference of waves. Perhaps they hide their thinking from other psychics. Perhaps they affect another's perceptions, as like the voice that you are now hearing, my will affecting your brain's sensations by other media than air and ear. Perhaps they affect material, lifting a body into the air, drawing energy from some other source similarly to how you would draw up from nothing the potential to create a bolt of lightning, or the mass in a column of water. This is in outline the psychic phenomenon, which many a human has failed to explain. I tell you this not as a strange hypothesis of nature, but as truth so naturally clear to psychics that humans might just as soon explain how a light begets shadow, or how a step produces motion.

[As the embryo entered your body, it went from the isolation of the tank to within inches of your spinal column. Consider a human infant reaching compulsively for objects near, and how it begins to abuse them. One would be false to suppose it had violent intent. Now suppose it had power to bend metal bars—is it so surprising, with no ill will or awareness, that the clone began to affect you violently? Within moments, the clone's psychic power followed the efficient channel of your spinal column and began to colonise your nervous system, which double input your mind interpreted as unusual physical pain. Within minutes—and whilst Torus sedated you, attempting to delay its effects—the clone's influence had reached your brain, experiencing in some ways its first sensations. Once I removed you from the tower, Torus and I combined our power to calm its mind and protect yours—but once entwined, it was fully three days before we had unravelled the clone's connections. During this time it affected you more deeply than any psychic has business doing. It opened doors no Dragonite's brain would find ajar.]

He looked away across the room, past where Runa had left. That glimpse of her, he thought, of people nearby—that feeling of Mewtwo coiled up in the lab, as if he wanted to keep to himself—those were not like the worry of being watched. She is thinking about you, Mewtwo said. Mewtwo looked at him and raised his nose.

[You understand, then, what I am saying. The clone instinctively sought such patterns, unique to psychics, as appear in its own brain. Finding them lacking, its own will created them in yours, by stimulating certain points of connection. The result is that you passed a certain threshold, as very few non-psychics do: certain traces, tentative patterns, now exist in your brain, whose effects you have already begun to feel. Finding that parts of your brain, once awash in blank noise, now resonate to certain frequencies, your mind already begins to hear the thoughts of some of those around you. It is but a first fraction of what psychics perceive, a first bleary-eyed step beyond the cave, but it is beyond what most ever will. This is what I came to explain to you, that you would understand future experiences, and not think, as usual, that you had turned crazy.]

He looked at his hands. Then it really had changed him, he thought—made him something not quite a Dragonite any longer.

[No.] He looked at Mewtwo, who frowned at him. [You are a Dragonite, only one now pressed into strange experience. Some humans have gained the psychic power through deliberate meditation and study—your case is very unusual. And yet, having now gained such power—]

Mewtwo stopped; lay his hands down in disgust, he imagined, as the thing he came to speak with turned away and covered his eyes, for they wouldn't stop. He saw himself through the psychic's eyes—only imagined it, he knew, but there it was—this mutant creature, tweaked in every way by a human girl, already suffering every passion, who now, with this unwanted and uncontrolled power, would soon even hear her thoughts; could only watch as it slowly dismembered him, the truth driving him far away.

But Mewtwo was waiting, growing impatient. "['M sorry,]" he said, behind his hand. "[I just …]"

[You wish to remain forever ignorant about Runa, that you may never perhaps observe how she differs from you.]

"[Y— Yes,]" he said—a pathetic weakling, he became, saying he didn't want what psychics had. "[Because I know she doesn't, and, and—]"

Mewtwo looked away a long moment; would really prefer not to speak, he knew. Then he leaned forward and folded his hands again.

[It is your choice—and one I feel no conscience to make for you, capable as you are of imagining outcomes. But I shall finish my advice, as I came to give you. Practice your psychic ability. Listen to minds. Meditate on your understanding of mind. Your ability is weaker than any psychic's, and may in fact fade without use. If you train it, however, it may grow enough that, far from removing you, it helps to resolve things with Runa. For it is a rare mind whose better understanding of a thing harms their competence in treating it.]

But that was it, he thought—what he was looking for all this time, a way of approaching Runa. With the power, he'd know for certain Runa's thinking, how she felt for him as like a child or family, and how best therefore to confess his feelings, having every hook to hold onto. Torus wouldn't tell him, psychics had their rule, precisely to prevent that sort of advantage; but now that that power fell on him, and they only didn't speak because it was pointless, for he could figure it out himself, why not use it? Why not build up his powers of thinking, and learn to persuade her? perhaps even use the psychic voice, and speak directly? And even if all that was beyond him—looking at Mewtwo, it certainly seemed beyond—wouldn't it at the very least help his thinking, and build up reserves of calm? For psychics had to have reserves like no other species, seeing so many things and being unaffected.

Mewtwo rose from his seat.

[Do as you like, but know that you have at most potentially a fraction of the psychic power. Possibly even with exercise, the ability will fade—you are not a case with many precedents. In any case, I advise you to speak to Torus. He ranks the difference from psychic to non as greater than I think it merits, but I suspect he is willing to guide you across that bridge, if only as a sort of affirming experiment.]

Of course Torus would help, he thought, and guide him—perhaps would have explained it, as such experiences increased, if he'd asked the Alakazam to save him. Yet he ought to thank the legendary, he thought, for everything: Thank you, he'd say, for everything! But Mewtwo raised his hand hand to stop it, and fluffed up his scarf.

[Remember that your power is weak, and at its peak may hardly affect Runa. Certainly it could not effect in her a newfound love of you. But that she loves you in a way, she has already told you; only its form is to discover. But I will not speak of things I do not understand.]

And the great psychic went away, to step off the balcony, he thought.

[Love … Give my double your love, I suppose. We will see if he differs in that.]


	23. Level 75 - Ever Grande (Scene 1)

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**Level 75**

The Ever Grande City Conference took place in a large forested lake, with three concentric rings of arenas, shops, and walkways, joined by five bridges in a Staryu pattern—highly defensible, Manda said, which was perhaps why Omega chose it. Once disgorging troops from their airships at the four corner plazas and the conference headquarters at the city-side exit, it would be simple, she said, to channel every trainer and Pokémon along the bridges toward the central arena. Lightning and fliers would cover the sky; water legendaries would claim the lake, those that Omega created, and Excadrill would block up every land point, psychics every teleport; nobody would escape. Then the slicing and collaring would begin, if it wasn't complete already: Team Omega would lay claim to thousands of Pokémon, the very strongest in Hoenn, and so leave it gutted of every defender, and most of the champions—after which Hoenn was effectively theirs, and soon, all other regions. And it would be televised, all the while: everyone in the world would surrender or panic after such a massacre, Lance said.

Runa said he was only emotional, that rather this would be the day that Team Omega fell, and all the world watched. But how many times had she described again how to avoid capture, how the new generation of slicers were like Master Balls, how any Team Omega grunt was as dangerous as a raging Rayquaza? Some meaningless soldier, caught unawares in a minor mission, threw out every ball whether filled or not—and like that, Lance lost his Dragonite. He was nearly sixty; they had been together for fifty years.

Of course not even Runa could speak to him after that. He wouldn't let his feelings compromise the plan, he said, and he still had his other Pokémon, but his manner changed, turned dark and depressive—and no wonder! How would he turn if Runa were abducted, when he was there to prevent it, no less, and was outmatched by some random troop? He refused to be away from her, now; she had to remove his arm from time to time, and each time he felt this absurd worry, that he ought to distance himself, in case … Was that Runa's thinking? Omega liked Dragonite: they were powerful, stupidly loyal. One only had to transfer their loyalties by a little psychic switch, and there, a hulking soldier. No doubt they set about at once to cloning Lance's, one of the honoured few for whom they'd take the effort.

But the Ever Grande Conference, he thought (Runa took his hand again)—this wasn't a place to take lightly, all the best trainers in Hoenn present. It would not be a massacre. Granted there were more Omega troops, they thought, than competing trainers, a thousand or more; granted they had each perhaps one legendary; but half the attendees were trainers too. The organisers knew and told all the right people, were as ready as was possible to be; every champion was present and paired, ready to lead some pocket of resistance, buy time for the other mission. Either the war ended today, as Manda said, or every resource they had was overrun; the Pondelore estate would be evacuated, all the rest; anyone who could escape, the last scraps of the compact, would hide in Castelia with Leonardo and petition the Diet for every troop. Even if they won, Team Omega wouldn't strike again at once, and they didn't have the numbers to use what they captured. But if they lost nearly everything, he thought, and were split apart, trusting in some councillor to act quickly … It was all right, Runa said, squeezing his hand again.

"Maybe we'll try competing, when all this is over," she said.

She didn't mean it, but Ken and Hestia approved, and Émilie trilled as if she did too. They looked and saw all the happy people—all crowding at the opening stalls, under the big screens around the plaza, rushing to the arenas for the first matches of the day—and imagined that was it, that that was a conference: a jolly show, as Apollo said. (But why pretend, he thought, that he really read them?)

It was early spring, nine months since Omega had left the Black Tower, their last, most public display; and now the world continued to turn, forgot all about them, it seemed. The news cycles moved to another subject, the threat abolished for all they knew, or at any rate unnecessary to cover, just now. The truth was that Team Omega only was hiding, went onto airships, into secret bases, hid themselves with psychics and prepared for the great attack, what would secure their dominance and lay the Diet at their feet. So they had lain in secret, planned for an assault by Pokémon. But they didn't plan for conventional sabotage; certainly didn't plan for David.

Runa lead them down the beach road. They had to stay close, she said: Team Omega may have agents on the ground.

Dyna said, "[Leave it to crazies to pick a fight before breakfast.]"

Only two months off the estate, and she was quite at home! She had forgiven Runa; was quite changed, seemed more mature, somehow: some fracas at the estate which she wouldn't talk about, something Manda had to step in over, but nothing which forced her to leave, that being rather her decision. When he flew her to Goldenrod she was very quiet; now and then she mentioned some friends she'd made, but she wouldn't talk, only slowly worked back into sassing people. She was interested in Runa's plans for the Academy, now, and said she would teach, get Hoenn people to come, once all the Omega business was over, even though she hadn't quite kept up her training. The experience, she said, an epic battle at the Ever Grande Conference, would jump-start her drive to battle. Rita didn't understand her want to leave, she said; but then Rita, she said, had hardly moved from her couch in two years, and couldn't burn a leaf if she was on fire. So she and Hestia didn't get along, but they'd make friends eventually—it was nothing like had been with Tanwen—it was only such a thrill that she was there! he felt, looking at her, his oldest friend after Gaia. They all had doubted Runa, back then; now four of the six had returned to her, Torus all done with his business, ready to help her mission, after today.

[The airships will arrive in fifteen minutes. Be mindful of suspicious persons.]

This was the spot, the corner of the southern plaza, as the Alakazam directed them—the Gang of Heads, as Dyna called them. Runa looked at him, at each of the others, seemed to want to speak; but she only said, "I'll get you something—I'll be right back," and left for the stalls nearby.

"[She knows we all snuck in snacks earlier,]" Hestia said.

"[What!]" Ken said, kicking the ground near her. "[You said not to eat anything—not a crisp!]"

"[That's just you,]" Hestia said; "[you're not a good flier. Shadow needs to see where he's carrying you.]"

How fresh it was! he thought, the cool air from the lake, the white stone of the square, still the third day of the first round, when most teams were yet spared of disappointment, every Pokémon and human stepping brightly—talking, walking, noticing Runa. She hadn't a title, but she was a Pondelore in Hoenn, and a champion's sister at a battling conference. Perhaps her fame had dimmed a little since Silver Town, he thought, seeing how people treated her (she much preferred it, she said), but only because she wasn't rushing after gyms and tournaments; still, she was a figure of interest, and only just turned eighteen! Really the team had grown at a blinding pace. So a few trainers suggested now, he thought, as she stood at the stall. I'm just a tourist, she said; she had come with her team to watch the Conference. Was she still fighting? they asked—were Omega really defeated? They were still about, Runa said, looking toward him (wasting precious minutes talking, she seemed to think)—in fact took an interest in battling, Runa said, looking at them, and in Hoenn trainers in particular, which battlers they'd do extremely well to watch from their hotel room this morning. He looked away; it wasn't clear if they understood, but as she was famous, people listened. The lady remembered she was missing something for her Swirlix, and they left, back towards the city.

There across the plaza was Cynthia on her Garchomp, he saw, amongst a crowd of tourists who stopped to look. In a pinch she would have to be prepared to lose them, her Milotic, her Togekiss (the same with Émilie, Runa feared), even Garchomp herself—stolen in front of her, he thought, as they knocked her to the ground.

Gaia touched him and pointed. "[Look,]" she said.

On one of the large screens surrounding the plaza, there was a trainer, a young man perhaps a bit older than Runa, and … But that could be only one Typhlosion, he thought, walking out beside. Tanwen fighting in the tournaments; Tanwen pleasing the crowds! he thought. It was the same trainer she left with in Silver Town, now grown up, Tan's trainer now for about as long as Runa. Didn't Runa say that they went to Hoenn? After a difficult time, Runa had said, keeping in touch, Tanwen had finally grown to relax—probably that Goodra warmly hugging her, snuffing her fire, or that Diancie dancing about her.

Gaia said, "[I guess it worked out for her, in the end.]"

There was nothing special in her trainer, he thought, looking back at Runa. And that wasn't fair; the boy might become the next champion, for all he knew; but he wasn't Runa.

"[It's good she's happy,]" he said, as he fit Ken's harness over his wings.

Runa came back with two pitchers of juice, orange and yellow with cups in her fingers, and a bag on her arm which—oh! But it was only a reporter, a cameraman running, not some Team Omega troop snuck up on her. He took the orange pitcher. Nobody would see a report on Runa, with what would happen in a minute, and here they were stealing her time! But she only smiled (didn't mean it, he knew) and said she could give just a minute, and then she'd have to meet someone.

"Are you competing in the tournament, Miss Pondelore?" the man said. "It's probably not too late to enter, I mean, if it happened to take your fancy."

The man deserved a slap, he thought, suggesting that Runa would try to game the system, a Pondelore using her influence; Runa only smiled. "No, no," she said, "not at all. We're just here to watch the tournament. It happened that we were in Hoenn, and we thought, there's nowhere we'd rather be than Ever Grande City. But of course, you'll be first to know if we decide to enter next year."

The man smiled and brought back his microphone. "What about your sister, Manda?" he said. (He was very much wanting a slap, he thought.) "Is the Indigo Champion going to compete in her home region, at last?"

And she looked at them, at Ken who was scarcely chugging his juice, and smiled as if to say, I can't help it. "I don't know about her plans—you'll need to ask her yourself," she said. She smiled at the man. "Please, I'm only here for a little time with my Pokémon. I'll talk after rounds if you like—it'll be a pleasure. But with all the teams and Pokémon about to start, they should be focus, not me."

"I'm sorry," she said, once the men went away. She sat between Gaia and Émilie, opened her bag of lemon Puffs, with and without rinds. "They didn't have anything sweet," she said, touching Ken. "I'm sorry." For it was perhaps the last meal they'd have together, she thought, but couldn't possibly say.

Mewtwo had said that his psychic ability might grow or fade with use, however it happened, having after all no precedent to judge; yet in nine months, for all his lapses and Torus's training, he might count its percentage change on the claws of a hand or finger. Still, he thought, he did learn something, and Torus still took the effort. In the few outward thoughts that he did come to hear, the vast majority were for oneself—one of the practical, political truths, he thought, which explained why psychics cared so little for what people thought of them, being as they were but bit actors in an otherwise singular show. That Gaia was unhappy, he now knew—relaxed, as always, but deeply dissatisfied, feeling not so much that she went nowhere as that she didn't know what she wanted—and Apollo, which surprised him, was also the same, which perhaps explained why the two became such good friends, spending many long conversations together, both being similar in some nature, both being unsatisfied in love. Dyna's insecurities too were clear, always mounting till she gave some sassy remark, at which she felt not better but stronger perhaps. But it was too little, he felt, to change opinions, where from some tiny anecdotal cases one formed a whole notion of a person—just the sort of thing people did about Runa. With only those thoughts that he heard most clearly, wouldn't he think that Ken, for instance, was a very simple mon? often thinking the same thoughts many times in succession, how he would do this, do that, how such a giant punching block would snap like a twig. Yet Ken was thoughtful, or could be so, showing as he now matured a greater depth of character, which Gaia said proved he'd make a good teacher. To hear nothing, and be like other people, made one concentrate on judging character; to hear everything, like a true psychic, made one an expert in understanding it; but to hear a little bit, and have those new points, calling into question one's unaffected judgement, only began to confuse him—which nobody would think if they found out, he knew, but rather only quit from trusting him. Would they hate him for keeping it secret, if they discovered? He was always good at keeping secrets—still only Gaia knew his feelings for Runa—but he lacked the sort of constitution which psychics evolved. One day, perhaps, he'd hear something secret and speak when the rule said he ought not. (It did not apply within psychics, he gathered; it was assumed that all of them knew.) But all such provisions taken together, it would not be so terrible, he thought, if now and then everyone heard a thought or two as he did—for then they would feel, at a visceral level, how everyone from stranger to family had some similar depth of thinking and feeling and want as oneself, and were not in reality just that: another. The sky was not made of distant stars, incomparable to one's own brightness: the suns all around were of equal magnitude, only spread out in a galaxy.

Runa was the exception—a sun amongst stars, in his perception, standing too close to see its surface, even its light invisible. (She looked at them, held each in turn.) She was nearly impossible to make out clearly (like juggling many loose threads, it felt, trying to tie them together), but of the half-dozen times he heard her thinking, she only ever thought for others. Once for Gaia, whose unhappiness she felt; once for Manda; once for Leo and Ken as a single image; and three times for him, he heard her thinking. She would buy him some macarons, she had decided, and so she did, ten seconds later; she had worried that he was missing (coming in late as Leo kept reading every book in the store); and once, as he saw, and nearly fell upon her there and then, she had imagined his hand in hers, wanted to touch him, but said nothing, sitting on the opposite side of the couch as they all watched a show on the screen, about what he could not remember. Three times Runa had thought of him, out of the fraction of one which others would leave him; and each was like a drop of thawing potion, he felt, landing on freshly frozen skin and filling him through with warmth and intemperance. (But Runa let go his arm, now, and didn't look at him, had to be hard for the mission.)

[All teams are in position. The airships will arrive in five minutes.]

"[It's coming!]" Émilie said, fluttering high above them. "[Look!]"

Far away over the forest, he saw, in the cloudless skies, a broad mist was rolling in, and there in the other way came two others.

How did the champions get used to it? he thought, putting down the pitcher before it shook, so that Ken, suddenly ravenous, stuck his whole head inside. At least in a battle it was just a little club on the head to worry about, no greater harm than some pain, a record. Now came an airborne armada of ships, a hundred legendary clones and psychics, collars which could take over minds, slicers—they ought to throw up the alarm at once! Shouldn't every trainer know, have the few extra seconds to prepare? If it failed, everyone would blame the champions—battling itself would be dead. And in a moment he would be up, heading for the airships; and Runa would be a mile away, riding on Émilie with Dyna to channel them, in the thick of it, unable even to see him.

He couldn't wait any longer, he thought; and Runa seemed to know, to expect it, for she stood: he hugged her round the middle, lifted her up. For if there was the smallest thought in her mind that he didn't care for her, that he was really frightened at her touch, he couldn't forgive himself, letting her battle with that sort of thinking. It would be fine, she said—there wasn't a chance of failing. The whole plan was designed to appear as such, to trick Omega into a false security, but he ought not to fear … He set her down. It wouldn't be difficult, now, he thought; his nose had already touched her shoulder. Just a kiss (all the others looking), a peck on her shoulder, or cheek, and then he would fly away powerfully—wipe out any bad feeling by destroying the whole fleet, punching out every engine in order. But he couldn't, and let her go. Runa already knew he cared, touched his middle before parting; and now she went to Gaia, the moment gone. Would it be their last moment, all together? he thought.

"Remember, they're following David," Runa said. "That's how we know they won't win. He's one of us."

[Three minutes to Omega's arrival.]

She was right, of course, he thought, stepping back for the others to hold her. Everything was as ready as possible; the conference organisers had arranged the day's seeds so that the strongest teams were on the field; every champion was present, ready to finish them if they were weak, ready to trick Omega into a false security if they were defeated. If this was the plan it absolutely had to be the best, or weren't half a dozen Alakazam fitter to choose than them? From their secret places around the conference, they would direct everything: they would spot the leader's ship and tell every flier where to strike. But then, perhaps David was overcome—perhaps Omega's technology was too powerful? Gaia looked up at the cloud. Perhaps Lance's Dragonite would fly out to fight them, rush to strike the lady Dragonite he'd said he loved?

On the screen the announcer appeared. He said, "Attention, all trainers and spectators: The first rounds of day three of the Ever Grande Conference are about to begin!" A cheer rose up from the people in the plaza, many expecting to watch from the tables, not knowing, he thought, that it would soon be cut short. "Ticket-holders will please take their seats now, or hold until the start of the next battle."

[Two minutes to arrival.]

He could hear the droning; across the plaza a Noivern was growing inconsolable. Runa looked at them and said, "All of you—" But she couldn't speak. The cloud came rolling low toward them, about to be noticed by everyone, he knew, blocking out the sun.

"You know what I want to say," she said.

He had to hold her, he felt, just once—but Dyna hugged her middle, now, and Ken her leg, and Hestia stepping forward took her arm and said they were ready, pulling Ken away from her, who all of a sudden seemed very small, like a Chimchar climbing Runa. But as the others turned away (he would get his moment: he must), as Dyna climbed onto Émilie's back ahead of her, Runa looked at him—the little dragon girl from the song, he thought, making her destiny—and before he could move she reached up to him and said, "Don't be scared," and kissed him on the nose. Then she left, climbed onto Émilie without looking, as Dyna looked back at him as if she gagged, and they flew off toward Cynthia across the plaza.

Gaia saw everything, he thought, looking at him; he had to be dripping sweat all over. But she must understand, if such walls as with Runa couldn't open in these circumstances, wouldn't they only prove he was heartless? After all the years, after all her teaching, Runa only wished she could pick up and cuddle him, a Dratini again to hold; so she kissed his nose. (The clouds were settling, now; people began to take notice.) And Gaia, too, he may never hold again, and she looked at him as if to say it; at which, he thought, he more or less had to, if he wasn't a heartless friend—he kissed Gaia on the nose, just the same. As one who, even if he couldn't love her, did at least love her friendship, he gave her his affections to keep, whatever might come to divide them, whatever ball may turn them enemy.

She turned and folded her arms, pretended not to be affected. "[If I have to save you, you know, you'll be doing that again but properly,]" she said.

Then Hestia pushed Gaia aside, suddenly reached and grabbed his face and—oh! licked him fully on the nose, and let go. "[Now, if we're all done macking the good-luck dragon,]" she said, jumping up into the air. And Ken jumping up to grab the harness licked the back of his head, and said that they were now ready.

Let there be chance, he thought, jumping after Gaia, let there be chance to forgive them later, after the collars and men.

[Omega has arrived. Remember your roles, and await our commands. The battle now begins.]

They would hear nothing but psychic commands now, he thought—which was about the only thing they might hear, everything else drowned out in droning, the cloud settling over the plaza itself, and all the people looking frightened. Passing out of view below them (had to keep sight of Hestia's tail, couldn't lose them in the mist) the screens burst into static, and now, even through the noise of the airships, they heard a new voice coming over:

"People of Hoenn and the world, behold! The Ever Grande Conference is now controlled by your great benefactors: Team Omega! All trainers will submit and render their Pokémon to us, or by the psychic—"

The voice drowned out in the din; ahead the light shone through as Hestia breached the cloud, and in a second they all were above it—a metal-clad airship just to their right, and more all around them, forty at least, oh, more than they expected! The Alakazam figured only ten to twenty … this was twice what they thought was the whole of Omega. What was the use of an ultimate plan, of spies and secrets, if things only missed the mark so widely? And not one airship stood out from another—which was the leader's ship? Wouldn't the Alakazam tell them?

"[Just keep rising,]" Gaia said—"[we need the height anyway.]"

Ken said, "[Look!]"

From the deck of the airship, he saw, dozens of ropes and fliers flew out, all the troops disgorging: legendary clones, and Charizard, Dragonite, a dark-clothed trainer on each of their backs, with trailing leashes—the collars. He moved nearer to Gaia, rising up with her. The psychic collars were worse than the slicers: one click, and any Pokémon fell instantly under their control, couldn't resist an order, forced to attack their own friends!

They rose past the lowest airships, others already turning to land, blowing out the cloud with their rotors, its purpose done. Bolts of electricity passed up and down, ice and fire, a hundred red flashes as every trainer threw out their Pokémon to battle in the arenas and along the walkways—all fighting, he thought, to save their friends, no idea of a plan, or how Omega would start to kettle them. And suppose his psychic power were any stronger—what fear and anguish there had to be, multiplied a thousand times from his own conception! But Torus and the other Alakazam would not be affected; and in a moment, their directions would come.

"[Articuno!]" Hestia said, already dropping out of sight.

Ken grabbed the harness with his feet and threw out a Fire Blast behind them; and in a moment the Infernape howled, must have missed the Articuno between the arms, he thought: they lacked the experience of born legendaries, perhaps, but not the physical powers.

"[Turn!]" Ken said, pulling his antenna.

He turned; an ice shard passed through where he'd been, so cold, he felt, it might have knocked him out entirely. Oh, but wasn't it madness? he thought—hundreds of legendaries, or more! All it took was a few at once and they were finished … but banking now the other direction from Gaia, he saw Hestia flanking the Articuno, whose trainer didn't see; and gauging the proper distance just right, she landed a terrific blow against the Articuno's head, he saw, flames flying off her hand, and sent it tumbling toward the ground, the trainer struggling to hold—not fainted, but out of the picture, he thought, enough that they'd be out of sight before it recovered.

"[Why don't you use a Flamethrower, you drip?]" Hestia said, as she caught up to them.

And Ken said, "[Fine! I know!]"

"[O— Or something else!]" he said: from above a pair of Charizard and a Garchomp bore down on them, all lacking trainers, he saw, either brainwashed or bred.

"[Keep going,]" Gaia said, turning aside toward a nearby pair of airships—oh, what was she thinking?—one of the Charizard following, the Garchomp taking after Hestia, and the other Charizard, he saw, now focused on him.

The air was still thick with water from the cover cloud—thick enough, he felt, to draw the water. He lifted his arms, and it pulled behind him, began to follow upward. It was too far lagging—he would have to dodge it—the Charizard prepared some sort of purple energy in his claws—

Suddenly Ken's foot was on his head, and the idiot jumped straight up; the Charizard jerked as Ken delivered a terrific punch, and the Dragon Claw failed to connect. The crazy mon, he thought … Where was he? He must be falling—but no, there he was: actually grabbing onto the Charizard, now hitting him again and again in close combat, swerving all over the sky. Didn't he think at all? And the wave of the cloud was still below, about to fall where his concentration had slipped. He pulled; and as it struck the Charizard from below, water spraying all around, Ken took cover in the middle, quite surprised, or perhaps never seeing the plan. And now the Charizard was really falling, and Ken leapt, almost without thinking—caught his hands, caught hold of the harness again.

"[Don't ever do that again!]" he said, beating to gain altitude.

"[Where's them?]" Ken said.

Down between the airships, lightning bounced back and forth between the metal sheaths, for a moment a sort of net between them: there was the Charizard, caught in the middle, struck from both sides at once. And there was Gaia, rushing up after—and Hestia? There she was, in a moment joining them.

"[Is it gone?]" Ken said; for even for Hestia, he seemed to say, a Garchomp was nothing easy.

"[Gave him a bit of medicine, is all]" Hestia said; and from her mouth, he saw, a bit of the purple Toxic still was running.

Those airships, he saw, were the highest around them, and in the distance the last seemed to pass below. Above was empty sky, no Omega troops covering—all troops now below, he thought, where dozens of flashes of battle appeared every second all across the conference. The armies had landed; everything was in earnest now; but still half the airships hovered above, any one of which might contain Omega's leader.

"[Which is it?]" Gaia said.

He couldn't answer; he began to feel sick again. (There in the plaza the fighting was thick.) David said the Omega flagship would stand out easily, that the Leader, as he called himself, was fond of his image, fancied himself the genius behind a great revolution, took after Lysandre of Kalos, Steven said, probably once was in Team Flare himself. But nothing distinguished the ships; nothing approached a centre to their forces. And where were the Alakazam—where was Torus? he thought. They were supposed to signal in this case, if it wasn't clear, and they hadn't said a word since the battle started. Did Omega have psychics powerful enough to block them—some sort of technology, even? He had not heard a thought since rising above the airships … But every second lost to confusion, he felt, looking at Gaia, was one toward Omega's victory, failing to set up the trap as it ought, failing to force the Leader to ground but only leaving him to watch the troops spread round him, closing in on Runa—

"[Heads up!]" Hestia said.

A pair of Zapdos fired lightning past them—didn't even try to hit. For they were chasing a Charizard, who now whipped past them, on whose trainer's shoulder a Pikachu stood and called back to them: "_Pika pikaaaaa_—!"

"[Did you catch that?]" he said.

Gaia turned and said, "[Omega found them.]"

He meant to ask, but it was obvious, seeing Gaia's look: the Alakazam. But that wasn't good, he thought—that wasn't the plan at all. Did that mean they were cut off, blocked for a moment by Omega's psychics, or … The first troops, the ones Runa thought were hiding, must have somehow reached them without being detected. Now even Hestia looked grim; for they were all of them blind, out of contact, and totally lacking a plan. Omega would pick them off one by one, and pile the champions in a heap, the Leader laughing and watching from his airship. And all that was protecting Runa, now, was Dyna and Émilie, neither of them good battlers, and possibly Cynthia, who might help her escape—but how would they know? How did Omega do it?

"[It must have been Lucian's,]" Hestia said, "[or Sabrina's. They were only caught a month ago, after—]"

"[What if—]" Gaia said, but didn't continue—didn't look at him at all, for she already knew how he'd react. Didn't he know how obvious it seemed that David had turned, become a double agent? He was certainly capable of arranging it, perhaps misleading even Torus. But if that was true—and it couldn't be—they were done already; so they must assume, he reasoned, that it wasn't. Team Omega might have any number of powers they didn't know about: a hundred legendary psychics all working on him. Or perhaps it was part of another, deeper plan, worked out in advance with the Alakazam, hidden even from the champions so that none could spoil it. Yes, he thought—let that be it. It was to stick to the plan, after all. It was just to find the Leader, and the ship.

"[What do we do?]" Ken said, and for once Hestia couldn't answer, only looked about the sky.

But what was it that Torus once said, recalling their mission into the Black Tower? Even if one hid themselves directly, or wasn't clear to see, their effect on others extended further; and then even a Victini turned invisible you could see by the leaves rustling around it. Between David and the Leader and all a ship's crew, the others feeling different about their mission—

"[There!]" he said, pointing at the airship. He couldn't be sure, but it did seem different, and wasn't it hovering near the central arena?

Gaia said, "[How do you know?]" She looked very hard; Hestia looked back at him.

"[I … I feel David,]" he said.

Gaia left it at that, had accepted long ago that he and David had a strange connection. "[Fine,]" she said—"[let's not waste time. Remember, stay high until the Meteor hits.]"

That was the plan, at least—to crack the metal frame, knock out its engines, or at any rate create a hole into which fire and lightning could enter, and so force it to land with the Leader inside it. Gaia dove ahead, followed a wide arc toward the airship. It all looked clear, he thought, nothing coming up to block her, for hovering so high as if to watch things the Omega troops probably thought they were the rear guard, as it were, looking down as with all other fliers to prevent escape. There was battling all across the Conference, on every ring and plaza, Runa's still still very active but moved more toward the bridge leading inward, now. The flashes, explosions, gave a sort of map, a front line (though whose side was which he couldn't tell): the central arena was still on fire, pockets of Omega troops around it, or were they trainers? but the two northern plazas were quiet, with airships already landed (Steven Stone, Wallace, and Iris, he thought, and Clair, Diantha, and Manda)—fire continuing up the bridges toward the centre. There were definite crowds on each with fire exchanging, all heading toward the centre, it seemed. Team Omega took the plazas and forced them into the middle, where their troops would be waiting—ready to process them, he thought, take away every Pokémon and put them in collars or balls. What if Apollo was already captured? he thought—Jeanmarie hanging off some Omega officer's belt? But it was all part of the plan, he thought, and even if Torus was really—

["Runa! Behind you!"]

From a vague notion of Runa's place on the ground came now an image, a voice, as if like some old-style screen in a movie he resolved a scene in stages. Cynthia called out to Runa, and Runa turned to look: a pack of Omega troops were coming from a new direction. She was on the ground; from above, Émilie's rush rebounded, unable to overcome the Dragonite. Dyna stood with arms held out. But the soldiers weren't only using Pokémon: there left and right were humans being grabbed, bound and carried by Machoke, some of them held unconscious. There someone had blood on their clothing. It wasn't supposed to be deadly, he thought—were Team Omega turning violent, carried away in madness and reverting to some base cruelty, as Lance said? Runa was nearly out of potion; her crescent bag fell to the ground—had red on her hand, he saw, when she reached for it.

"[There!]" Ken said. Gaia threw out the first Meteor ahead; but they wouldn't work anyway, he knew. "[Let's go!]"

What would it make him, he thought, diving down toward the bridge and plaza, if he didn't save her now? It would mean that he didn't love her. That was what you did when you loved: you lost your mind. They could hardly blame him: if they did, then they didn't really love her. What was the point of bringing everyone together if Omega were only going to destroy them? It was all a mistake—he had to save Runa, and then they'd regroup, fly away to safety and decide what to do.

Ken was grabbing his neck now, straining to hold on. "[You're missing it! It's that way!]" he said.

"[Runa's hurt,]" he said. He beat harder: he could reach her in a minute, and get her out, fly her far away from the battle.

Ken said, "[How do you know?]"

"[I know!]" he said. He could hardly explain it now—never told any of them about his ability—and what was Ken thinking to suddenly hesitate? Didn't he care for Runa? "[They're going to hurt her,]" he said; and out of the air Émilie vanished, ripped away by a slicer, he saw, Runa retreating ahead of Dyna, who fired everywhere, split the plaza's stone surface.

"[But Gai needs us!]" Ken said. The little runt tried to cover his eyes, as if to stop him; he grabbed his arms and flipped him under, pinned against his stomach. "[Ah! But the ship! You're gonna ruin it!]"

That was an Articuno, turning to look; but he was too fast: it didn't follow. "[Won't help,]" he said. "[Can't stop them.]"

"[That's not the point!]" Ken said. The little monster tried to get his feet on his eyes now, bit his arm—didn't love Runa at all, only thought of himself. "[We're supposed to bring them all together, like Tory said. Then we'll save everyone and Runa too!]"

Never in his life did Ken try to reason, he thought, and now he became responsible! Still he couldn't see her amid the crowd. He had to dive quickly and knock through them.

["Dyna!"]

There Dyna fell with a rope on her neck, a black collar she couldn't pull off, until she no longer tried. Now Runa stood alone against Omega. Somebody grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly; beside her Cynthia's hands were bound and she wasn't struggling. Is she a champion? someone asked. She's with this one, another said. Which one is it? Take them to the Leader.

But there she was, he thought, there at the mouth of the plaza, the front line moving ahead. He felt he had every power in his command, wound punch through metal and rock to save her, never mind such creatures standing between them, punching bags to kick across a gym.

"[W— We know you love her,]" Ken said, slipping out his arm out to touch him. "[She loves you too! But she wouldn't want you ruining the mission!]"

Perhaps he was gliding; the world quite disappeared, only Ken in his hands. "[She does?]" he said. "[Did she say?]"

Down below, he felt, an electric calm came over Runa. He remembered how he used to accept that in battle one may faint, may lose everything, but still if one had done one's best, left things as well as possible for others, it was all right—so Runa felt, he knew, that moment. She looked up at the airship, what she supposed may be the one: they were there, she thought, carrying on the mission, would now see the business through; Shadow was there, fighting bravely, who was stronger than he ever knew, if only he believed it.

Ken stared. "[Wow, you really do?]" he said. "[I knew it! Leo was right!]"

He felt sick; might burst into tears in a minute. It wasn't even Gaia who told them, in the end: he was only so obvious that everyone saw. Did they think he was a monster? Or did Gaia let it slip, somehow? She protected him every time his character came up, looked at the others as if to order them to quit—it had to be a thought among them for months, for years. All the time in Castelia they looked twice whenever he and Runa were near. And it was a dirty trick—outwitted by Ken, struck his weak point—but Ken was so honest, so guileless, that perhaps he wasn't lying?

"[But does she love me?]" he said.

"[I don't know,]" Ken said. Then he seemed to reconsider, felt the hands holding him loosen, perhaps, so many feet above the ground. "[M— Maybe she does! But, but then she really wouldn't want you wrecking things … if I were her, that'd make me not love you really quick! So we have to fight the ship. Gaia's already gonna be mad at you—do you want Runa mad too?]"

That was enough, he thought—no more speaking. "[Fine! I'm sorry!]" he said, throwing Ken over his back again, turning back toward the ship.

Of course it was only the wind in his eyes; it wasn't that it really affected him—to think for a second that Runa might, that all the while … But all of them were rotten thoroughly, making jokes about him behind his back. "[You're all rotten,]" he said. "[I can't help it. I, I loved her the day we met. If there's something wrong—]"

"[I don't care!]" Ken said. "[Look, she did it. Look how many there are!]"

The ship was smoking; Gaia had already landed more than one Meteor, punched holes right through the airship's undercarriage, near the rear turbines; but now there were a dozen flying troops all about the breach, and seeing him missing she would have fled, circled until she found him, probably terrified (still in love, in a way) that he was stuck on some trainer's belt already, if she wasn't now captured because of him. He would get such a thump when it was over; would do anything she wanted, he'd say.

But there she was, he saw, a green dart underneath the airship, an Articuno close behind her, Hestia nowhere to be seen. The Articuno launched an Ice Beam, and Gaia turned to dodge, moving away again.

"[You've got to get her attention,]" he said—"[use a Fire Blast!]"

Ken reared back and spat the flames into the air, arms spread wide—but she was behind the hull again. Did she see?

"[I don't think she saw,]" Ken said. "[Why? What's the plan?]"

He looked over the hull, near the main propellers. There were portholes not far ahead of the Meteor's breach, perhaps only a turn down a corridor to the engines. She wouldn't last much longer against ice; and he didn't need an Infernape on his back, he thought, not with the terrific blow it needed.

"[You go with her, all right?]" he said, angling down to that Ken could see clearly.

"[Huh?]" Ken said, but he seemed to get ready, getting in place on the harness.

They were close, almost too close to turn and make it—but there was Gaia, pulling toward them again, the Articuno still behind her: she must have seen, pulled away so that the trainer didn't see them.

He said, "[Tell her I'm a dummy, okay?]"

Ken said, "_Infern_!" and jumped, let off a Fire Blast, trusted Gaia to avoid it and the Articuno to fly right in. Gaia swept low to catch the mad monkey—caught him, he saw, on her face, as the flames flew straight toward the other behind them.

There wasn't time to watch or explain things; with all his speed in the turn, he might make it. The window was tempting, he thought, but far too small: he'd smash the glass, but only get stuck partway through, vomit all his guts out as the airship jostled slightly. Striking the metal itself, a pointed explosion, would tear the wall away around him. Eight hundred thirty pounds, Runa had said at his last weighing—over three times Apollo, four fifths of a Snorlax. Perhaps he'd explode, or mash flat, fall like a pancake onto the arena? He raised his arms, made the last turn—a little bit further, he felt, seemed a better spot, more likely to reach the engine room—closed his eyes, and felt the energy reach a point at the tips of his claws. (And oughtn't he have used the Beam? But too late now, he thought, to do different.)

The outer wall imploded—and he carried through, more than he expected, and why wasn't it another wall, an obstacle, something to slow? but instead straight into a corridor, his wings tucked in so that he skimmed the ground, actually bounced and slid. There was a troop, many troops ahead at an intersection, turning, scattering as they saw him—far too fast to make the corner and escape them! And then a Snorlax followed round that instant, stopped and looked right at him. Well, he thought, that was particular.

He plunged into it, past the side of his head—fell flat onto the metal floor, all momentum gone into the Snorlax, which barrelled away. That was curiously good timing, he thought (he couldn't stand at all)—but there the troops were recovering, getting up. One of them had a collar. He turned and whipped his tail, lashed air at them: they all fell back again. But this had to be the very heart of the ship, he thought, all the corridors looking the same about him; so that was the power room at the end of the hallway, dim through the smoke of the Meteor.

The airship shuddered as he started down it, and an alarm sounded. Someone ordered more troops to the reservoir—the envelope had been breached. That was Gaia, he knew, making a distraction, for even with the metal cover broken, with enough barriers in place and Electrode in the engines, the airship may continue to fly, but not if they didn't destroy Gaia. For your Leader! said a voice on the intercom; For Omega! They had to scuttle it, he thought; had to lay on the ground where all the rest would follow, rallying to protect it, if it really was the Leader's, for he didn't really know, and if David had wanted to trick him—

The engine room doors looked far too strong to just pull open … And it was a ridiculous plan, just to blast through it, he knew, would probably see it reflect in his face, but what other option was there? With luck they had the good sense not to stand right ahead of it; he held his arms out, built up the Beam in his mouth.

It was not as strong as it looked, he thought: the door blew out of the frame entirely, straight into the far wall, straight into the base of the Electrode engine, four of them fixed inside it, all the glass panels and dials cracking, but otherwise continuing to function. The Electrode looked at him as he slid through the doorway, still secure in their grips behind thick glass panels. The mechanics all about him backed away against the walls. But there were valves all over, steam and water, he felt—water enough to do something. He raised his hands and took a hold of it, and the mechanics, who seemed to know, ran into the hallway behind him, gave it up. He pulled, and the pipes began distending, spraying water here and there. Alarms went off on all the consoles; and as a few pipes burst and shot water across him, the engine began to groan, most of the working dials plunging to zero. They had to know in the control room, he thought, would order everything to grab him. The Electrode all looked at him with their tiny eyes—were they willing to help, or were they part of Omega? There had to be a way to release them, he thought … there, a lever on the wall which snapped open, which said above it, 'Capacitor Emergency Release'. He pulled it: and lights on the hatches either side of the Electrode flashed, and promptly failed to open as the grips let go, and a jet of air flung them against the hatch, so that—oh! they would burst at once!

At least he had the mind to protect himself: he threw up the green shield just in time, pushing back the water. All four Electrode exploded simultaneously, blew out the framework and sent the glass and metal flying—such a mad thing! to knock oneself out, and now where were they? All faint in the engine's wreckage, torn to scrap about them. They had to know all about Omega's corruption, that it was worth anything to knock out the Leader's ship.

Far behind he heard men shouting; in the corridor at least a dozen were running after him, and the same voice, rather more panicked now, ordered all remaining troops to emergency stations, that the airship was coming to land. In the hallway a trainer sent out a Darkrai, who began to swell with a black energy—not even controlled by the psychic, he thought, only happy to help Omega. And now the exit was cut off, he thought, ducking inside, keeping near the wall so they mightn't see; and even after the explosion there wasn't a hole blown open, no escape hatch of any sort, and no space now to build up speed and—

The floor exploded: a Meteor burst through where he had been standing, tore up the floor before the doorway—blocked the entrance off.

Well, he thought, holding his tail, this was getting rather lucky. Gaia saw the engines failing, took her chance to try to make his exit. She might have fainted him herself! but instead left a hole at least four feet wide, all the water pouring out, the central arena below. He would certainly have to kiss her: she would have her way with him, he thought, and dove in.

He stuck. Perhaps three feet, he thought—oh, wouldn't he move?—for his middle spilt over the edge, immovably stuck. He felt the ship trembling through the metal, and the ground, now above him, began to spin.

Above him, below him, Gaia came near, with such a look of venom he never saw. Was it possible that she actually decided to leave him? He nearly cost everything, flying after Runa (Ken must have told her everything, hanging on her neck), but he was sorry, didn't she see? as he reached out toward her. Suppose the Omega troops cut through and ran straight into him? Did the collars work on tails?

Gaia took his arms and quit flapping, let the full weight of her and Ken pull—still he stuck. He would begin a diet at once, he wanted to say; Gaia snarled and began to bounce, pulling him down in increments. It gave a little, but too slowly; and now he was sure he felt something strike the metal behind. Then Ken was on him, standing on his chin as he punched his middle, beat it back. He fell forward by a fold—he nearly fit! And then the twisted metal floor blew open, fell on his tail, and he shot out into the air.

In seconds they were clear and over the lake, looking back at the airship. It fell slowly toward the central arena, smoke extending far behind it, and fliers swarmed round to control its descent. But then, he thought, the mission succeeded—the Leader forced to land!

But Gaia looked at him and felt nothing as jolly, he could see, arms curled as if to slap him. She wanted to say all sorts of things, he knew, about his quitting her at the worst possible moment, about his size, his dwindling grip on sanity. And how could he answer? Hestia was still missing; Runa was captured; and here was Shadow, she thought, flying off on wild missions, nearly getting himself captured!

She folded her arms and said, "[I'm not saying anything.]"

Probably, he thought, this was not the time to kiss her. He said, "[I … I thought it went pretty well! You did a—]"

Then all he saw was blinding white, and Gaia's fear, and the world turn to black as he fell away from her.


	24. Level 75 - Ever Grande (Scene 2)

_Chapter continues from previous part_

**Link to PDF/audio versions in profile**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

When he woke he was underwater, looking up as an airship ceased to cover the sun.

Probably he was in pain, he thought; his limbs hardly moved as he tried them, as like when exposed to ice for too long; but as a great thump didn't hurt for a second, perhaps the feeling had yet to reach him. Did he faint? That seemed to be the only explanation—fainted from an Ice Beam or something like it, caught him unprepared. It was less painful, then, than he imagined: the thing itself presumably dulled his senses, made it almost like falling asleep. In the lake, he felt, all the sunlight filtering through, it almost seemed a pleasant day, the conference schedule proceeding smoothly, the first rounds underway.

"_Ky-oh—_"

(But nothing, he felt, went as expected today.)

The Kyogre settled some distance away; and if not for the banded harness which circled its entire head, a black-suited diver connected, he might have thought such a great legendary Pokémon meant no harm, only came to watch him float in the water. Perhaps Omega would think he was one of theirs? Perhaps they waited for him to get up and rejoin them. But the diver made a motion, and almost lazily the Kyogre curled its pectoral fins, and he felt the water around him rushing upward.

There was nothing he could do: thrown up in a sphere of water surrounding, he could scarcely register the blinding sunlight, the world all spinning around him, when the ground came up and struck against him and he lost his wind, landing flat on his stomach in dirt, coughing up spit and water.

There were, he thought, a few moments of grace remaining—a few seconds where he might move, get up and join the battle—a few seconds, he found, in which every power of motion escaped him, and he could only lie looking up at the sky, still blue through the smoke and airships. An hour ago trainers had gathered to enjoy a few battles, to qualify, take a step toward accomplishing their dreams, or, if luck wasn't with them, to return again another year for training. Now all the stands in the big arena were empty, he saw, just a few stragglers, those who had no Pokémon and were cut off with nowhere to go, nothing to do but watch, the whole thing happening so fast. In their hotel, he thought, the two people Runa had spoken to held their Swirlix and watched. Every eye in the world must be waiting, he thought, searching for reports of what had happened in Ever Grande, some breaking news report of airships descending; and when the cameras restarted, as Omega would start them, they'd have their view of the conference conquered, and the start of the fall of civilisation. And if they had binoculars they might make out the principal actors, how this champion was lead away in bindings; the Pokémon, divided by type and rank of trainer; the slicers, as like Émilie; the collars, as like Dyna; and there, if their eyes wandered, a lone Dragonite lying in mud.

Then half a dozen Pokémon laid hands on him, grabbed his arms and wings. But in a second, he thought, they'd possess him—putting on a collar, they would try to set him against Runa—he had to fight, find a power. He kicked, lashed his tail, actually dislodged one of them, and now they let go and—That was Manda's Raichu, Diana. She had on a collar, and Manda wasn't near, only some troop who looked at him and shouted. She fired a wave of electricity: she couldn't help it. He wouldn't blame her. He hardly felt it—felt it, but as if at a long distance, as if he looked on at the motions as every muscle seized up, twitched uncontrollably, and now a Machamp grabbed his wings and arms, and two Machoke his knees, turning him over. A sweaty, collared Tyranitar put his neck in a lock, breathing down on him. Had he been a trainer's, just minutes ago, perhaps the same who grappled Gaia in Silver Town, his trainer come to Hoenn hopeful of a happier time? But now there was nothing he could do, he thought; whatever courage he ought to show, whatever calm Runa wanted to see, escaped him, and all he could do was quiver in their arms. Where was Runa? They took her away: he would never see her again. (But it was all the plan, she would tell him; he only had to trust in others, now.)

Team Omega, as they'd expected, gathered everyone in the Conference to the central arena, and what sounds he heard now were not so much battle as angry people talking and shouting. The airships were clustering around the arena, some landed near the one which was smoking. Was their mission then not completely useless? he thought, for the ship would have landed anyway. Now Omega arranged all the trainers together along either side of a path, at the end of which a hovering airship—not the Leader's, if it really was the Leader's—stood looking down the path, and fliers arranged either side to watch the crowd. But if this was everyone, the whole conference, then Runa had to be near. Perhaps she could see him; perhaps when she did he would know, feel her warmth, and it would somehow dissolve the paralysis. She had to know the smoke was their doing: their mission, little as it did, was done. But where was she? The Tyranitar pulled back his head. Wouldn't they at least let him stand, he thought, just once so that he could look for Runa? He could not hear her thinking anywhere. Perhaps they struck her, knocked her out? He had to try again to move, to … Now they stopped. One of the troops was circling him. Some sort of approval, he felt, was given. The man touched his side; wondered if there was muscle, perhaps, if he was worth the effort to clone. It was rotten fat, he wanted to say: he wasn't useful. They may as well give him back to—oh! He had a collar in his hands. The Tyranitar let go his head, and the Machamp threw him to the ground.

He couldn't move in time to stop the man: it shocked him the instant it snapped onto his neck. For an instant every limb felt divested from him, as if they ripped right off; now they felt numb, only locked into place with curled claws.

The man was slim, hardly taller than Runa. He looked down at him with greed—that was what others would see. But that was too easy: there was more, something past it, a sort of guilt in his thinking. Then the image arrived in its entirety, all the connected threads ringing clearly, as the man, he supposed, remembered everything to this point: a boy in a preparatory school's uniform; a Pokémon, bred especially, who didn't trust him, and a wish that the thing (so he thought it) would just obey; the lost match, and his family's disappointment as he dropped out. The man (now he was a man) always wanted it better, to do better, circumstances not this time obstructing him. Team Omega promised to give anyone only the strongest and most obedient Pokémon: there would be too many Pokémon to find trainers for, the recruiter said; his only trouble would be choosing. So he put on the uniform: he became Team Omega. He had Runa Pondelore's Dragonite in his hands, she who was spoiled and had everything she didn't deserve, which now, as he deserved, was his.

The man said, "Dragonite, stand!"

At once he stood. Of course he'd stand, went the thinking, the thought catching his attention like the outermost, defining strand on a sunlit ball of hair. The thought of remaining came separately, seemed somehow split into another line of thinking, one as disconnected from movement as a daydream from walking. Was this how it was, he thought, every collared Pokémon fully aware of their condition, only giving up eventually the thought of resisting, for peace's sake, even thinking in time of Omega as master?

The man said, "Stand straight for your master, Dragonite."

He felt his back was crooked, that only stock straight would it keep from breaking—but that would be better, he felt, than having the power to stand for Omega. This man was not Runa, nothing like her, a rotten creature who dealt with failure by blaming other people. But the pain built too quickly, and he straightened … but perhaps slow enough that anyone watching would see he resisted, that he wasn't all taken at once. Did Diana see, think it was possible? He could turn his head to look, but perhaps, with enough will, it was possible. But didn't the man know that this wasn't what he wanted, what he'd dreamed about as a child? This wasn't a willing obedience, as he'd wanted: this didn't fix his dream.

At the edge of the path, he saw, some of the Pokémon prisoners were being brought to the front, selected by order of fame, it seemed. There was Cynthia's Garchomp, and her Milotic, and over there were Apollo and Jeanmarie—all squinting at him as if in pain, each with a collar and a single trainer near them. Were they impossible to resist, he thought, these collars, that even the greatest were taken by them? But no—Apollo's laid mangled on the ground near, his arms and wings now pinned by a pair of Machamp, the sweat of paralysis on him. He was always very strong willed, Runa always said: so one could resist, if they were only strong enough. But where was Runa? It was only Pokémon along the path; they had to be keeping her with the champions somewhere near. But Gaia was not there, nor Hestia nor Ken; Lance's Dragonite was not there; Red's Pokémon were all absent.

The man said, "Now, Dragonite, prove that your loyalty lies with Omega—one Hyper Beam, into the sky!"

It was a fine idea, he thought: just a beam, a little show of his strength, his vitality, like a beacon for the whole conference to see: the Machoke pulled his head, pointed him towards the sky. But he may as well strangle to death, he thought, or freeze into some Articuno's weird statue, cracking to pieces, if he followed Omega's commands: he may as well gore his heart out, kick it down the path for Runa to see as a thing he didn't use any more. But the pain was building in his throat; it would fly out on it own in a minute, he felt, if he didn't resist.

The man pulled the leash and said, "Hyper Beam—I command you!"

Dragonite were known for the Hyper Beam, he thought, but they were known also for the Inner Focus. He always lacked it, had instead his gross girth, but if the thing could be resisted, if psychics were more difficult to control (for there were none in collars, that he saw) might it be that his little bit of psychic, as Mewtwo put it, was enough to resist such tricks? When a psychic blocked their mind (Torus described it, tried to train him) they thought in certain ways, turned those connections which otherwise broadcast in on themselves, like a wire grounded in earth, so that little went out, and what came in was tempered. That was the principle of defending against psychics; that was why Fighters, who tended to think directly, so often found themselves susceptible; that was how Darks rendered themselves immune to it, with minds always turned inward.

Once Runa described a condition of hers (common in humans, she assured him) where, on waking, she felt as if under a great pressure, and it was impossible to move, a sort of paralysis brought on by not waking properly, not all of her mind come out of it. One broke out of it on their own, eventually, but it never satisfied her—all the while the sensation of drowning, she said, of being unable to breathe, smothered by the weight of a blanket. So she found a way out: by concentrating on part, a finger, she would find that she could move it slightly; exercising that, the motion spreading, she claimed then a hand, then an arm; finally she pushed and came out of it at once, lying breathing on her bed or bag, looking out to see her friends sleeping, her dragons curled up nearby. So to have a start, he thought—this thread of Runa—to simply let it stretch and expand, was all he needed. The collar was like a clip, pinching together; and Runa's cord being unbreakable, what was a clip but a piece of foil? For suppose it was Runa, flying above him, and the Beam would harm her? Suppose she saw, and felt that he now began to forget her—what was this thread of a collar to that? And like that, he felt, it was easy to reach: he pulled the collar apart in his hands, whipped the leash forward, and the man, too surprised it seemed to release it, flew away over the path into the crowd.

At once several Machamp piled over him, pressed him into the dirt until he tasted it—and how it was worth it! he thought. For a few trainers whooped, he heard, but not that; for Apollo looked and grinned, he saw, but not that; rather somewhere in the crowd, he felt, Runa saw him, her thought for a moment coming through. She saw him throw off the shackle and, didn't she know it? imagined it was his loyalty, his love of her. If only he held her now! he thought, if she leapt into his arms, he wouldn't hold back at all, but would thoroughly kiss her neck and shoulder. There where a crew was setting up cameras, he saw, he would kiss her and let everyone see.

But there across the path men were running, lining up, a trooping slowly walking down the centre. One pointed to him, looked up at the airship. He was singled out; he became of interest, as one who resisted the collar, he thought; and at a word the Machamp pulled him up again, all holding him behind that he couldn't move, and was that a Registeel? but all holding his neck so that he could hardly breathe, couldn't make a Beam if he wanted to, and now someone began to scrub the dirt, applied a potion to remove the paralysis. Oh, he thought, what did they want from him? Perhaps it was a mistake to be so forward for Runa—perhaps he'd become some example she'd have to see.

Far down the centre of the path, some men began to roll out a long carpet. A platform, which hovered freely in the air, began to draw up into the airship's undercarriage near the cockpit, some sort of opaque shield or barrier covering it. Perhaps it was the Leader they came to collect, he thought, and with him—?

A voice came out of the airship:

"Begin screen testing, please. Camera one!"

The camera crew seemed uncomfortable as an Omega officer with a headset directed them—crew from the Conference media centre, he thought, gone in an hour from recording conference battles through war reporting to being press-ganged into Team Omega's propaganda corps. A nervous Dragonair wearing press credentials held a stabilised camera suspended from her middle. They were going to put on a pretty face, he thought, as if such a show would persuade people: none of the bloodied or beaten trainers were here, now, only officers holding the leashes of champion Pokémon, now captured.

"Positions, everyone!" the airship said.

A few last Omega troops ran past, vanished into the crowd. The camera crew moved ahead past him to look up at the ship. It would make a terrific shot: the Leader coming down to visit, the Leader coming to inspect his prizes, he thought.

Presently some sort of klaxon blared—all the troops stood at attention, the collared Pokémon standing stiffer at command—and Team Omega's anthem, they called it, spread from every airship, a man singing in one of the Kalosian tongues over bombastic horns and beating. At the first verse, fliers unfurled a banner from where the platform had been; at the second, the platform began to descend, and now it was not shielded, but was packed with officers, another banner standing behind it, the arc-shaped symbol for Omega set white on red, with golden trim around it. Did they think it looked impressive? he thought. All it would take was a single flame to burn it all up and make them look ridiculous! But Apollo and the rest were as restrained as him. The platform touched the ground at the anthem's climax, all the officers fanning out—and at the final verse, all the officers in the path applauding, there was the Leader, he saw, in front of the banner, held behind him like a portrait or throne.

"Attention, people of Hoenn," he heard, booming over the arena—"people of the world! We are Team Omega. We are in control of the Ever Grande Conference. We … are your saviours!"

The Leader, he thought, was quite as extreme as the radio transmissions suggested. He compensated, Dyna said: he had a big head and a tiny brain. With only that view it would be easy not to take him seriously; but this was the man who abused so many Pokémon, this the man who ordered a thousand atrocities of breaking up friends and families, of forcibly controlling minds, and wanted to keep him from Runa—all in the name, he thought, of improving society, which meant improving his own condition. There was no point in people in the crowd jeering as he spoke, as he heard them, when only the man would he heard in transmissions—going out to all the world, he knew, a breaking report on every station. But now, he thought, looking around, they were all together—all of Omega's commanders were here, wanting to see the moment, able to be finished at once in a single attack. Oh, where was David? Gaia might swoop in, or Red, set them on fire, and in the commotion the other trainers might break free, break the collars and fight them!

The Leader stepped off the platform, had on, he saw, a sort of close-fitting helmet that was designed, they suspected, to protect him from psychics, actually had little flares to look like the letter Omega. Now he held a microphone to his heart.

"My friends!" he said, gesturing to the crowd, walking slowly forward down the carpet as the press Dragonair, now sweating, moved backwards with the camera looking up at the man. "Do not despair for what you feel is an attack on your freedom, your liberty! Team Omega wants nothing but freedom for all, for man and mon alike—it is only our vision which differs from yours, perceiving now that ideal and final condition, most difficult to reach, most perfect in form! Our methods you fear, and blame without understanding. How shameful you will find such thinking, once you fully understand what has happened this day! This glorious day is but the first step in realising our enlightened plan for world unity: bringing together all the major powers of Pokémon under one banner—one final, Omegan banner—for the benefit of all the world!"

The champions, the compact, had picked up all sorts of communications from Team Omega not included in the Leader's radio propaganda, and tried to work out his true intentions. As well as they could determine, for all his pretences, Lance said, the Leader was not so much driven by reason as a kind of faith. It was the common thing in all the villainous teams, a belief in some sort of manifest destiny, that they were the leaders of a new way. What way? Something involving control and power, Lance said; something which benefited the leaders at the expense of the rest, whom they crushed like so many eggs. (This was after they took his Dragonite, and everything, Runa said, turned very dark for him.) Each was lead by some charismatic leader, one who perhaps even believed what they said (this Leader, certainly), who by strength of a pack of attractive delusions got a clutch of followers and expanded. And how did they find so many who were willing? Bad human nature, Manda said, though it never seemed to him so simple as that. Yet Omega were different in eschewing the mythical bend of the others, the idea that one great legendary would bring them ultimate power and control the world—for they chose to create their own legendaries, to make an army surpassing any other. Giovanni, Cyrus, Ghetsis, Lysandre—all mad or maniacal, all ineffectual on their own, perhaps, some powerful in their own right, but each enabled only by the armies around them. The Leader, he thought, was not powerful alone, did not even have his own Pokémon who believed him; with Team Omega behind him, he was something else.

"The greatest works and projects are often those most unappreciated in their time, perhaps even opposed by the fearful or privileged, or those kept in ignorance by others," the Leader said. "We understand your hesitation. To change is hard, hardest indeed when the outcome seems uncertain. To rise to the occasion, to seize greatness, has throughout all history frightened those whose lives have been spent in the cave of darkness. They have required, in every age, a great movement, a banner to rally round—a revolution, and its revolutionary leaders, to show them the way, to lead them out into the light! Yet invariably, those banners have burned and those causes have been corrupted—power-hungry men usurped them, turned the cause to their own profit, and all of it at the expense of the greater people, without whose eventual will they are nothing."

The Leader paused and looked down at the camera. "We understand, then," he said, "that you may look to Team Omega and think the same, that we mean to grab power for our own benefit, and use that power to impose our will. Nothing could be farther from truth! Our ambition is not to rule;"—he looked back and forth across the crowd, swaying, as if he saw those who watched through the camera before him—"we wish only for all the peoples of the world to unite in one force, to understand and embrace our cause as their own, that all the world may be joined in a single, glorious will; which will we do not impose but which, once properly instructed, is none other than that of the people! Until that day—until our understanding becomes your understanding—the methods we use are a necessary step to preserve the progress of civilisation, and to prevent our work from being interrupted by the foolish and weak of will. Is it not a crime against all thinking creatures when, not understanding what they do, a strong-willed human or Pokémon acts to oppose our enlightened mission? They claim to protect you, these champions, when their only effect is to delay perfection! Do not think such resistance is admirable, people of Hoenn and beyond. If they only knew, if they saw the world as we did, they would not oppose us, but join our ranks willingly! They, most of all, must be persuaded. They must all be shown the way." He held out his hand as if to grasp something. "They must be touched … by the light of our wisdom!"

What rot! he thought. So the collars weren't to force their wills, the man said, but then he wanted the same will for everyone? He made it out as though they were fools to have another opinion, that they were Dratini who didn't know any better. All this, he thought, because one human of a diseased temperament turned out to be somewhat persuasive! Probably he was rejected by his Pokémon like that other, and that was the start of it. He had a little Furfrou or something who bit him, and he decided to take over the world because he was crazy.

The Leader smiled and said, "But such wisdom you shall come to know presently. Attend me!" Now he passed near (the Registeel held him very tightly), the Dragonair with the camera turning to follow, the banner stood waiting behind.

Out of the crowd ahead, the troops lead a set of trainers into the middle of the path: the champions, he saw, all brought forward. There was Manda, and Lance, Steven, Cynthia—and Runa, he saw: Runa was there. Oh, she saw him! (The Registeel began to strangle him.) She wasn't hurt, but she saw; wanted nothing more, he felt, than to run up and hold him.

"Lance," the Leader said. "Are you there, Lance? Ah! … Here you are. I hardly recognised you, without your dragons."

Lance looked about to rush at him, he thought, get himself thrown to the ground in front of the cameras. He hadn't been in public since Dragonite was captured, had not dyed his hair, all grey underneath, or put on a cape until the morning, when he hoped to find his companion.

"Would you like to hear, Lance," the Leader said, "that when your Dragonite entered our care, some months ago,"—he glanced at the camera—"he resisted the collar also? Nothing would persuade him! Tell me, is it a thing about dragons?"

Perhaps all the Dragonite resisted, he thought; perhaps Iris's (there was her hair, poking through) was lying face-down in the dirt nearby, a bunch of Aggron sitting on him—certainly he wouldn't be persuaded. And Lance—and he would go mad if he were human, he felt, and they dangled the Dragonite Runa before him—Lance said, "It's a thing about the sane. Only a madman would follow Team Omega. We'd rather die than serve you."

The Leader laughed. "Oho! But Lance, poor Lance, I'm afraid it didn't matter in the end. You see," he said, walking back toward the banner, the camera following, "the collars are but one of our ways of persuading those who would obstruct our glorious mission. It was our first plan to bring the Pokémon champions here—a plan, you see, which has succeeded entirely—all together for capture, following our will without ever realising it. Now begins the second step of Team Omega's plan for world unity—to engender in all assembled here the everlasting will to union!"

The Leader waved his hand, and the banner flew open—and there, he saw, was Lance's Dragonite.

But could it really be him? he thought, looking closely. He was not wearing a collar—did not look at Lance. He had never seen eyes so dead! Now he began to feel really sick—across the way Apollo fought again the Machamp's grip—for suppose Team Omega had developed some power which the champions never suspected? Some sort of horrific medical procedure that took out pieces of the brain; some gang of psychics who wanted power, willing to wipe out minds entirely, he thought. Suppose they overpowered David? Now Manda and Steven were holding back Lance, as Diana stood near with lightning ready. But suppose it were Runa, torn of all humanity, all memory of her Pokémon taken away! All the champions thought it; a psychic power wasn't needed to feel their fear. Apollo looked across to Manda, the last look, he thought, that he may ever have.

The Leader strode toward Lance's Dragonite, now moving quicker, and said, "This Dragonite resisted our regular methods, yes; but you see, people of Hoenn—people of the world!—in our wisdom we never give up on any mind. Our vision is one of great optimism, for the betterment of all: any mind, we knew, once seeing properly, could only agree with our cause. To persuade such a noble but stubborn creature, then, requires only a proper application of insight, so that a mind not yet incandescent with wisdom may accept the heart of our message, the complete enlightenment following with time and true firsthand experience. All we required was a great persuader, capable of gifting that insight directly, where our own message had failed. To that end, we created a great champion—a Pokémon to save the world! To save it from its own destruction, and to protect the progress of all life!"

He reached out his hand; and stepping out behind Dragonite, from behind the banner, there he was—David, in an armoured battle suit and helmet, his purple tail curled behind him.

Oh, he thought, but what had he gotten himself into? (The Registeel pulled him again.) He had grown almost to Mewtwo's height: two months with Omega, this disastrous plan, all hanging on that they couldn't detect him, this gang with a hundred psychics? Now the Leader touched David's arm, stood beside him as if admiring.

"Hardly had we given life to this great Pokémon," the man said, rising in excitement, "when he was cruelly taken from us by your so-called champions. Stolen! Ripped from our immaculate care before fully formed, from his own creator family! Then these champions, these pretender guardians of Pokémon, tried to corrupt him with ideas of weakness and subservience to petty men. Babblings of the sightless! This is what your champions amount to, shackling Pokémon to slavish thinking! But he returned to us, oh, he understood the truth of things. Any mind advanced enough would see our mission and understand: ours is the way to a world of all ages! Now he will accomplish his true purpose—now he will save them, all of them, who would turn their will against us, by wiping their minds of doubt for our mission! Look at this Dragonite and ask, does it question?" He put his hand on Lance's Dragonite, who did not flinch. "Nothing compares against this, our champion … but do not take our word for it. Witness, now, as he demonstrates his power!"

Now the Leader looked at him and raised his hand, and the Registeel pushed him into the path, all the cameras turning toward him. That was the plan, he thought: he was the example, picked out of the crowd as fit to show everyone how quickly a Dragonite folded, how what they did to Lance's could be done again in seconds. But it wasn't possible, he thought—it must be a trick. Or could it be that David really turned? David had loved them—he felt it, unguarded. He had all the things Mewtwo never had, his whole upbringing a success, they thought, growing up with a family. He would never turn; but he was only nine months old, had spent the last two with Omega: anything may have happened. Too much time near the Leader, perhaps, would make anyone turn crazy, or too much time in Team Omega's influence, so that now David, young as he was, perhaps wasn't strong enough to resist it. Or did he really accept their mission? did Team Omega actually persuade him, now that they had him? The Leader seemed to believe in everything he said, and perhaps, seeing such thinking, and being still impressionable …

David did not look at him, coming near, his own mother, as he put it. He and Runa had tried to teach him good, to turn away from only developing power, anything that would ruin the dreams of others, as Mewtwo wanted, which he always seemed to understand. And David was so kind, so lacking in ego, or at least lacking in high self-opinion … But he had hidden his thoughts before. Was it possible that he kept a different sort of thinking, hid it even from the Alakazam? That would explain why they were taken by surprise, tricked somehow by David; the plan was, after all, his own idea.

"All the world will fondly remember this day," the Leader said, letting go of David, "as that day when Omega, the last revolution, ascended to power and united all living things! This simple Dragonite erred in opposing our will, our magnificent wisdom, but we forgive. We give a place to every lost traveller—we guide all creatures from darkness to light! Go, champion—cast your light into its mind, and make its will as ours!" He gestured with a flourish, and the camera rushed in toward David.

David looked at him and, floating into the air so that they were level, he raised his hands up, both glowing with a white and blue light.

He could not see through David's visor; only saw his own white eyes reflected in the glass. Can you hear me? he thought. What did they do? If he could only move his arms, reach out and hold him, pull off the helmet (it controlled him, perhaps), wrap his arms round as they always did! He would call him his mother, and Runa his godmother, and Leo his brother, and Mewtwo his twin. That was David, poking some fun, and, like his little round fingers, never hurting. David took to human culture in a way no Pokémon ever had, not even himself, and he loved the society, and the books, and the food—poring over some ancient play with a dish of cut fish, or risalamande, or his favourite, Kalosian stroopwafels, which he always insisted was pronounced correctly. He stayed up late talking science with Torus and Raphael, and then in thanks secretly edited the latter's papers in some ridiculous cryptographic pattern to spell out where he hid the spoons, even though it took ten times more effort to change than Torus took to solve it. He kept all of Leo and Tizzy and Ken bouncing about with his varying interests, sometimes writing in kanji all day, sometimes training, and sometimes, they knew, sneaking off with Tiziano to break his diet with macarons. For two months he stole into Madonna's room to find her oils, added a drop or other at each stage until she used such a combination that, just for the day, her tropical green turned a touch blue, so that she thought she was turning shiny, had all but called the media before it vanished the next day. Not that he was mischievous, but only loved to prick some high opinion, and as he always said,

—I don't know what's best, but at least I know that.

In a moment all the memories would be lost forever: David hugging Runa, first shoulder high, then level, then one day tall enough that he had to kneel to press his cheek to hers; David curling up to sleep by him or Runa, between them if he felt like it, because he knew now much his mother, he said, wanted to sleep by Runa, but would never ask, so that this was an easy excuse; David lying with his head on Runa as they watched the Omega report, brushing crumbs off his middle and calling the Leader a bore.

David reached out and touched his forehead, the glow nearly blinding him, everyone about shielding their eyes, he imagined—and why should there be any light at all? he thought. For as Torus said, when once he asked if even his own weak psychic power might let out some sort of visible sign to the others,

—No visible signs, which well suits our discretion;

yet to a leader as absorbed and bombastic as Omega's, weren't such pyrotechnics quite dazzling? What amount of information, collusion in thinking, might he actually pass to Lance's Dragonite after such a show? What was David really doing, if not that? And that was David, he felt, smiling at him; and David said,

[No spoilers, please!]

The light flashed brilliantly, and for a moment nobody, he knew, could see anything; and as David let go, he saw the image clearly: every Pokémon, the champions and Omega's alike, at once had their collars drop off.

Before the light had faded the field was full of fire and lightning going off in all directions. The Leader tried to speak and David silenced him, picked him up in the air and tossed him into the officers like a doll; every troop, he saw, who reached for their belt, got their hand stuck, and fell over as if frozen. Then Gaia, he saw, Gaia and Hestia and Ken were above, as if out of thin air, and Red's Charizard and Pikachu; Apollo flew out and uppercut some Articuno who tried to rise; Jeanmarie threw five feet of snow and flattened the entire officer corps. And David's effect somehow carried on, broke every collar in the arena; and with three quarters, perhaps, of Omega's Pokémon suddenly out of control, and all of the top battlers of the conference, there was little wondering what would happen next, as throughout the arena three Pokémon set upon and stamped into submission the fourth. But he couldn't help them, he felt: nothing restrained him, the ones who held him freed or fighting now, but he could not move; for there was Runa, running toward him.

David took off his helmet and inspected his face in the visor. [Well, let's not completely lose our minds,] he said—[there are cameras, after all.]

But what did he expect? There was Runa, in his arms, leaping up toward him: he held her pressed close as he fell onto his tail. She buried her face in his neck, and now everything else dropped away, became insensible. Did she say something? He did not hear. There was a flash of red—some stash of trainers' Pokémon, perhaps, all rushing out into the battle, all reuniting with their trainers; but they'd forgive him if he didn't help, forgive him to only hold Runa; forgive Lance, just the same, embracing his Dragonite in front of them, never lost of his mind as the Leader said, as Runa had for a moment feared for him (so she felt it, all emotions at the surface now), only was a part of David's trick.

Runa had tears in her eyes, now. She touched his nose, and he held her hair—nothing whatever around them.

"I'm sorry," she said. She always said she was sorry, and for what?

She said, "Let's never be apart again."

He could kiss her right now, he thought; there would never be a better time, he felt, when nothing else mattered. He'd never held Runa as close as this … would anyone even see? Runa now touched him—kissed his cheek. He wasn't going to be able to prevent it, this time. Runa's neck from ear to shoulder was exposed and inches from his lip. He would only kiss, and … There was the press Dragonair looking aside at them, as David directed the camera at the things around them, but there was nothing to stop her from simply turning. There was Dyna running up the path, a stack of rocks in her arms which spilt every time she grabbed another, heading toward the officers, the ones who put on the collar; and she would be justified, but it reminded him, then, what humans did to others who so much as suspected wrongness. Even blameless, Runa would be given blame. He straightened up, looked across the battle; for suppose a lone trooper started to come at them? he meant. He only protected her—he wasn't suspicious; the Dragonair looked away; and in a moment Runa turned and looked also.

"I'd hoped it was part of their plan," Runa said. "They were in control the whole time."

For there down the path was one of the Alakazam, he saw—all of them teleported in at the last instant, he thought, using David's cover to subdue some cluster of troops, extending perhaps David's attack on the collars. Then there was never any doubt they'd succeed, as Runa said: it was high-stakes Flip, but the table was rigged.

Cynthia came and said that the Pokémon captured by slicers were all looking for their trainers, and Runa touched his nose and said she'd be back, that she was going to find Émilie. The battle was just about over, he saw, just a few last Omega troops being difficult, and the balls were all being stuffed into backpacks, for whatever fate would meet those who'd willingly served them, those who knew no other life but Omega. Would they be forever dangerous, he thought, at length released into the wilds? Perhaps they'd get an education: Runa's Academy, or the like. And to think of the future now! he thought. Now there would be something after Omega, and they could return to life. But he ought not to just sit, he thought, as things happened around him—where was Runa? He would join her, keep her safe. Why wasn't he chasing after already? But he had only stood up when David floated near.

"I gave them the camera," David said, pointing to the Dragonair, who recorded as the press people interviewed Steven, and Jeanmarie sat on the Leader, Dyna squawking at length and throwing snowballs. "They've got a crew and everything so I felt bad. I thought the Snorlax was a nice touch, don't you?"

The whole thing, he thought, walking beside him, was like a playful painting to David—every seeming coincidence a sign of his effect, a few simple psychic commands. He put his arms around David and held him close.

"[Y— You're nuts, you know,]" he said.

"Mum!" David said, laughing. "As if it was difficult. If I'd called that man the world's biggest head, he'd have thought I was giving a compliment. He didn't even take powers to handle."

"[You're still dumb,]" he said, unable to let go—nearly everything lost, turned to slaves! he felt, even if the Alakazam had it all cornered. Leo must have felt horrible, watching it all from Castelia. "[How much of it was their plan?]"

"Oh, as if any plan of mine would include a monologue," David said, smiling and biting his finger.

He held David's arm as both looked out over the arena, all the fighting finished, fliers now streaming up toward the airships to prevent the escape of any Omega's forces, just as they'd blockaded the Ever Grande Conference.

"[I'm sorry I worried,]" he said. David looked at him. "[And … and maybe doubted a little. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.]"

"I forgive you, mum," David said, hugging his arm—"on one condition. You haven't had lunch yet, have you? Well, seeing as I've just saved the planet, I think I get to choose … and believe me, it'll be something sweet, and nobody's going to complain about it, or talk about my diet, considering I haven't had a candy in months. The Leader ate grapefruit every morning—grapefruit! Need I know more to say he's crazy? And Caelus is coming too," he continued, leading him off in some direction, towards one of the stalls with sweets presumably—"you know, Lance's Dragonite? I figure every mon deserves a name. Of course, it won't stick if he doesn't use it, even in thinking."

To think he was worried! he thought, and here David was just the same, unaffected even slightly by all the time with Omega.

"I don't know," David said, looking at him. "I'd say I was quite affected. In fact, after two months in the bowels of Faldera Volcano, all bottled up and hiding my thinking from others, I think I've discovered what is, quite possibly, the most important thing in the world."

But of course some mark was left on David, he thought, straight from Runa's and Raphael's company to living amongst the worst sort of humans there were, the greedy and wanting and lacking in empathy—presumably he had to learn something he did not in Castelia. How many had looked at him and thought he was just a tool, a thing to put in armour (still he wore it, held his helmet) and call their champion, all the while only thinking of how he'd benefit them? How many looked at Runa and laughed, thought her care for Pokémon was childish? No, he thought, probably nothing would turn one quicker to Runa's method, and David had to know precisely. "[What's that?]" he said.

"Tea," he said, and sighed.

"O tealess-sloped volcano lair,  
Whose lonely mountain quakes,  
With only grapefruit anywhere—  
And so my belly aches."

He felt an urge to grab David's head and press it into his side, and David moved away and laughed. "But really," he said, "what kind of a perfect world isn't filled with rolling fields of tea?"


End file.
